To   a  young  heart  thirsting  for

passion, for adventure, it was not much of a life. The slow days of work and dullness were never broken for Rosalie Belleau, not by a lover’s touch, not by a night of laughter and dancing, not by the taste of wine or the headiness of occasional freedom. She had no recourse from drudgery except for her dreams. More lamentably still,  Rosalie  was  so  unenlightened  that  she  would scarcely have known what to dream of had it not been for Elaine Winthrop, who led the kind of existence that Rosalie could not help but envy. Elaine, only a year younger than Rosalie but far more advanced in experience, brought back gossip and lavish descriptions of the balls she attended, the glittering people she met, and the many delights that London held.

Although the season was closing and the summer was well on its way, London barely slowed its hectic pace and Rosalie burned with the fever of frustrated youth. She was helpless to change her situation and lacked the patience to bear her fate stoically. Slowly she simmered in the tepid, damp air of spring and buried herself  in  fantasies.  Someday,  Rosalie  dreamed,  she would wake up to a morning in which the gray and black  that  shaded  her  days  would  have  burst  into bright color. Someday the blood would sing through her veins with the sweetness of champagne. Someday she would escape her invisible prison and find someone to love, a man who would adore and cherish her. He would let her be a friend, a woman, a companion, a lover. He would share her dreams, arouse her most intense emotions, take her around the world to show her  its  wonders,  absorbing  every  sight  and  sound. Someday everything would change.

When someday arrived, it was not at all what she had expected.

It was seldom that Rosalie found enough time to join her mother, Amille, in a private discussion. When such an opportunity arose it was appreciated and enjoyed by both of them. Theirs was an unusually close relationship, for they could speak to each other not only as mother and daughter but also as friends. Amille was the most important person in Rosalie’s world, understanding the needs, questions, delights, and fears of her only child even though they were far removed from her own. Outwardly they were similar, two small, darkhaired women, but inwardly they were very different. Amille had a pragmatic view of life while Rosalie had an idealistic one, and as Rosalie reached the age of twenty she realized instinctively that the causes of this difference went deeper than age or experience.

Amille was rocklike in her stability and her love of order. She was well-read but unimaginative, whereas Rosalie’s emotions and thoughts seemed forever soaring or plummeting. No matter how Rosalie tried to control her own unorthodox cravings, she knew that she was forever doomed to seek excitement and to give too free a rein to her feelings. She liked to laugh out loud instead of smiling politely, she loved to ferret out secrets  and  discoveries  when  she  should  have  been reconciled to the way things were. Currently Rosalie’s curiosity was focused on a subject that Amille did not want to discuss, but as they sat down to engage in needlework the younger woman plied her mother with persistent questions.

“Rosalie,”  Amille  said  evenly,  a  frown  gathering between her attractive brown eyes as she took a careful stitch, “I have told you all that you need to know about your father. He was a confectioner near the East End. He was a kind, good man, and he died when you were a month old. Now, may we change the subject? It pains me to speak of him.”

“I’m sorry,” Rosalie said, feeling a twinge of guilt as she heard the unusually sharp note in her mother’s tone. “I did not mean to bring up painful memories for you, Maman. I just wanted to know a little more about him.”

“But why? Would it change anything about you or your circumstances to know more about him? . . . Of course it wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps it would,” Rosalie replied, tilting her head to the side as she regarded her mother. “Sometimes I find it so hard to understand myself and my feelings

.  I wonder sometimes if I am more like you or him.” “You are like neither of us.”

As  Rosalie  laughed,  Amille  shook  her  head  and smiled at the picture her daughter made. Rosalie’s blue eyes glowed with an almost violet light, and her lips were  parted  in  one  of  those  dazzling,  abandoned smiles.  She  could  appear  almost  angelic  when  she wished, but much of the time a hint of mischievousness glimmered in her expression, as if she were thinking of something naughty and inappropriate. At the beginning of each day her long sable-brown hair was pulled

back and pinned into a thick coil, yet predictably it would be falling down her back around midafternoon. Her beauty, her eagerness, and her vibrant spirit were all enviable gifts, but often Amille wished that Rosalie had  been  less  richly  endowed.  It  would  all  lead  to trouble one day.

“Maman? May I ask another question?” Amiile sighed.

“Yes.”

“I’ve never met any of my relatives, because you’ve said that they are all in France—”

“Yes. A respectable French family, fallen on difficult times. That is why I had to take a position as governess here.”

“Then surely you were higher-born than a confectioner? I am glad that you married my father, but . . .

you are so beautiful! Why didn’t you wait to see if you could have married a more influential man . . . perhaps a country squire who—”

“Ah. Rosalie, you worry me so often  .  .  . tell me, please, what you desire from marriage.”

“Well, affection, of course. And contentment with—” “Contentment.”   Amille   seized   upon   the   word

promptly. “That is exactly what you should strive for. And do you know what the true source of a woman’s contentment is?”

Rosalie grinned wickedly. “A handsome husband?” “No,” Amille replied seriously, refusing to allow the

intensity of her lecture to be diminished by any attempt at humor. “A woman is contented by the knowledge that she is needed by her husband. When he is exhausted and needs her to feed and comfort him. When he is dispirited and needs her to hold him. When he confides in her and places his trust in her. Give up your fantasies of a handsome, influential husband, for he would never need you as a poorer man will.”

Blinking in surprise at Amille’s vehemence, Rosalie looked down at her hands.

“But  . . .  a rich man would need someone just as much as a poor one—” she began, but Amille interrupted her.

“No. Not in the same way. To a rich man, a wife is a possession. His fondness for her lasts until she bears him an heir, and then he tucks her away in the country to live by herself. He takes a mistress for his sexual needs and relies on his friends for companionship. I would not wish that for you, Rosalie.”

Rosalie bit her lower lip, her eyes fairly dancing with rebellious lights. Certainly she did not want the kind of life that Amille had just described, but neither did she want to be burdened with more of the same drudgery that she longed to escape from right now!

“Do you know what I wish?” she asked impulsively. “That my father had been a . . .  a duke! Or at the very least a baron, so that I could do all the things that . . .” Her voice trailed off into abashed silence near the end of  the  sentence,  but  not  before  Amille  understood exactly what she had been about to say.

“All the things that Elaine does,” her mother said quietly. Rosalie nodded slightly, ashamed at the covetous  words.  “All  your  life,”  Amille  said  with  regret lacing through her voice, “I have wanted the best for you,  more  than  what  your  station  calls  for.  I  have encouraged you to do what Elaine does, to learn what she  learns,  to  have  the  same  respect  as  I  do  for education. But I have omitted an important part of your education. I have not taught you to recognize what your place is, what our place is. You consider yourself

her equal, and you are not. I’m afraid it will grow even more difficult for you to bear than it is now if you don’t come to some understanding of it.”

“I understand what my place is,” Rosalie said matterof-factly. “I am continually reminded of it. I am the daughter  of  the  governess.  I  am  Elaine  Winthrop’s occasional  companion,  more  often  her  maid.”  She leaned over until her head rested on the fragrant cotton of   Amille’s   apron   front,   her   discontented   heart suddenly aching. “But do you know what makes it hard to bear, Martian?” she whispered. “I have studied much more than Elaine ever has. History, art, literature . . .  I

can play the pianoforte and speak French, and I can even sing better. I could be just as successful a debutante as she is, but because of the circumstances of my birth—”

“Do  not  ever  say  that  aloud  again,”  Amille  interrupted sharply, her cheeks flushed. “If someone overheard you . . .”

“But Elaine is going to be married soon,” Rosalie said, her fingers twining together agitatedly. “What about my future? Will I continue to be her companion? And then nanny to her children?”

“There are worse situations to envision. You are not hungry. You have clothes and books, and little justification for such self-pity.”

Rosalie sighed. “I know,” she said apologetically. “It’s just that I have the suspicion that I’ll end up a spinster, and the thought makes me wild. I want to livel I want to dance and flirt—”

“Rosalie—”

“Toss my head until the pins fall out of my hair—”

“Shhh!”

“Make eyes at handsome men from behind my fan.” “Che’rie, please.”

“But  despite  my  fantasies  I  know  inside  that  no aristocrat would marry me. Do you know what they call  it  when  a  man  marries  beneath  his  station? ‘Manuring the fields.’ How I’ve been relegated to that status through no fault of my own escapes me.” “Of course you are resentful, but none of this can be

helped,”  Amille  soothed,  the  pace  of  her  stitching increasing markedly.

“Sometimes  I  sit  and  read  or  copy  verses  in  my album, and the room becomes so small I can hardly breathe. Maman, there must be some escape!”

“Rosalie,  you  must  learn  to  be  calm.”  Amille  was becoming  more  than  mildly  disturbed.  No  properly reared girls spoke in such a manner, with wild eyes and passion trembling in their voices. How could she teach her daughter to reconcile herself to the course that life had set for her? “You have been inside too much, I think. Maybe a trip to the theater will be good for you.” They had made such an excursion once before with the Winthrops,  and  Rosalie  had  been  charmed  by  the gaudy Covent Garden production, a triple bill including a Shakespearean tragedy and a one-act farce. Amille was entirely aware of Rosalie’s need for variety, and tried to provide it in harmless little ways, with books, new hair ribbons, and other fripperies that might ease her restlessness.

“That’s a good idea,” Rosalie agreed, subsiding a bit. She could not help remembering, however, how they had been required to sit with the other servants and the footmen  in  the  gallery, looking at the  upper  classes preening in the box. It had been disconcerting to sit with what Elaine pointedly called “the rabble,” especially considering the tendency of the lower classes to throw dried peas at the actors they disliked. “I need to do something new. Perhaps we could go walking down Pall Mall and bump into the prince during one of his elegant strolls. What do you say to that?”

Amille  pursed  her  lips  at  the  ironic  note  in  her daughter’s voice.

“According to Hume, each of us has a ruling passion, Rose. I hope that yours is not this restlessness. Some people can never be happy. I would not like to think that you have this affliction.”

Rosalie  also  wondered  if  she  would  ever  be completely happy. But surely she was not the only one to feel this way! How many women were like herself? How many fell so far short of the ideal?

The perfect woman was complacent, gentle, accepting  of  whatever  her  circumstances  happened  to  be, nothing more than a pretty toy who would serve the convenience of the man she belonged to. And she was not to be loved too passionately, not in the way that Rosalie longed to be loved someday. So divine, so noble a

repast, a well-known poem went, I’d seldom, and with moderation taste. For highest cordials all their virtue lose by too frequent and too bold a use. . . In other words, she

thought wryly, use a woman well and then put her up in the right place.

“I’ll try to be more content,” she said.

“And so you will be,” Amille soothed, handling her needlework carefully to prevent a pinprick from staining the fine damask. “Your effort is all that is necessary. Remember,  you  must  serve  as  a  good  influence  on Elaine.”

Slowly the young woman stood up, adjusting the pins  in  her  hair  as  the  heaviness  of  the  tresses threatened to undo the simple coiffure.

“I should go now. Lady Winthrop wants me to read to her. She is in bed, feeling peaked.”

“Probably the excitement of this morning. Did she decide to let Martha stay?”

“No. She said that any maid who had been caught with a man in her room would undoubtedly provide an unwholesome atmosphere for Elaine. And then Lady Winthrop looked at me significantly, as if she hoped that I would be next!”

Amille chuckled.

“Be kind to her, my good girl. She is not a happy woman.  Bring  her  some  tea,  and  those  chocolate biscuits she has taken a fancy to.”

“I would, Maman, but she needs slimming.” “Rosalie!”

The  younger  woman  picked  up  her  skirts  with slender, well-kept hands and left the room as quickly as possible, endeavoring to avoid another lecture. They lived in a stucco terrace house, the Winthrops occupying the third floor while Rosalie and Amille stayed in a basement room next to the kitchen. It was a privileged position, for the rest of the servants slept in the attic, which was cold in the winter and stifling in the summer. Rosalie summoned all of her energy to climb the endless staircase, her breath quickening as she reached the top.

The  book  Lady  Winthrop  had  requested,  entitled Avoid the Wayward Path, absorbed much of the afternoon. Rosalie read in a clear and even voice, her eyes passing over the thick, small print until she could not stop from blinking sleepily as she turned each page.

“Stop  that  droning,  child,”  Lady  Winthrop  finally said, leaning her head back until the pale gold of her curls rested against the pile of feather pillows on her bed.  Her  plump  cheeks  vibrated  as  she  sighed  and prepared to take a nap. “It’s ghastly hot today.”

Rosalie  also  sighed  as  she  set  the  book  aside, knowing that the chapters selected for today had most likely been intended for her own benefit. Quietly she stared down into the London street. Vendors walked up and down the pavement, crying their musical sounds to attract the attention of potential customers. “Cherr-rries! Sweet cherrrrries!” “News in print! Neeeeews in print!” Crossing-sweepers  of  tender  years  swept  the  way across  the  street  for  well-dressed  men  and  women, turning their palms up at the curbstone to receive a farthing or ha’penny for their service.

Twisting her hands in her lap, Rosalie allowed her mind to wander restlessly. There were so many places she was forbidden to go, so much that she could not do. Only a mile or two away were clustered the famous coffeehouses where the intellectuals read papers and conducted  lively  discussions  on  politics  and  theory. Further  west  was  Hyde  Park,  Piccadilly,  the  Mall, Spring  Gardens,  and  the  Haymarket.  She  was  not allowed the freedom to see these places by herself, a right which even the meanest street urchins possessed! But it was dangerous for a woman to travel in London alone. The London police were poorly organized and underpaid and these conditions led to vast corruption within  their  numbers.  It  was  up  to  private  citizens’ groups  to  look  out  for  their  own  welfare.  A  harsh criminal code was the only deterrent to crime. Therefore  Rosalie,  Amille,  and  the  rest  of  the  servants traveled back and forth from Winthrop House in town to Robin’s Threshold, the family seat in the country, without setting foot in the places in between. “Rose!” came a whisper from the doorway. Rosalie automatically put a silencing finger to her lips as she turned to look at the visitor. It was Elaine, who had apparently  recovered  from  the  foul  temper  she  had woken with that morning. It was difficult for Rosalie to bear a grudge toward her, because even at her worst Elaine possessed nothing of the nastiness that permeated Lady Winthrop’s disposition. Elaine was basically a happy creature with the typical needs and desires of any well-bred English girl. She yearned for a handsome suitor, beautiful clothes, and adequate pocket money. There was no reason why she wouldn’t be able to attain her goals. Elaine was gentle, pretty, well-dowried, and rather simple. This morning she was especially attractive  in  a  powder-blue  gown  decorated  with  beaded flower appliques. There was never anything to fault in her appearance, for Elaine took endless pains to ensure that her blond cornsilk hair was arranged as artfully as possible. She also cared for her skin with the same air of mission, guarding it zealously from the sun so that it shone like gleaming snow. As she peered into the room and took in the scene, the light, clear gray of her eyes glinted with a particularly gleeful expression. “I have to tell you about last night,” she whispered.

“Come with me, Rosie.”

Reluctantly Rosalie cast a glance toward the bed. A gentle snore rumbled from Lady Winthrop’s direction. “I can’t risk leaving your mother—” she began, but

Elaine shook her head impatiently.

“I’ll tell her it’s my fault if she wakes while you’re gone. I want to gossip awhile and Mama won’t need you for at least an hour or so.”

Rosalie nodded and stood up carefully. Whether to stay or leave was not a difficult decision to make. The last thing she desired was to bring down the baroness’s wrath on her unlucky head, but she was relieved to escape the stuffiness of the room. They tiptoed into Elaine’s turquoise-shaded bedroom, done in the feminine style of Robert Adam, with festoons, white Grecian reliefs,  and  Venetian  carpets,  and  they  sat  on  the canopied bed. Eager to hear news, gossip, or descriptions of anything entertaining, Rosalie leaned forward to catch every word. “It must have been an exciting party. You slept very late this morning,” she said, and Elaine grinned wickedly.

“Excuse my temper this morning . . .  I was as cross as a bear when you came in with my tea. Last night was the  longest party  yet.  I could  hardly  open  my  eyes today, after all of the dancing I’ve been through. Mama even let me waltz, can you imagine? And I met the most wonderful men last night, and the downstairs hall is already filled with flowers and calling cards for me.” Dreamily she closed her eyes and fell back onto the goosedown  mattress.  “None  from  him,  though,  and that’s what I would prefer. I must get him to notice me.” “Ah, him. And just who is ‘him’?” Rosalie questioned with  reluctant  amusement.  It  was  half-pain,  halfpleasure  to  listen  to  Elaine’s  adventures  when  she wanted so badly to have one herself.

“Lord Randall Berkeley, the future earl. He and his friends attended the party last night. Every now and then one of them would dance . . . oh, you should see how Lord Berkeley dances! He approached Mary Leavenworth for a waltz and made the clumsy girl look positively  graceful!  The  rest  of  the  time  he  and  his friends stood near the corner and talked mysteriously among themselves, stopping occasionally to cast an eye in the direction of the more popular debutantes.”

“They sound rather arrogant to me.” Rosalie could picture the scene easily, especially the corner full of young male peacocks, all strutting and preening because they were matrimonially eligible.

“Oh, but they looked so worldly and exciting, as if there was nothing they hadn’t seen or done before.” “Really?” Rosalie’s interest was piqued even further.

“Do you think that’s really true, or is this some grand impression they seek to give?”

“From what I hear, Berkeley is very experienced and utterly wicked. Mama told me that spending even one minute alone with him would shred a girl’s reputation.” “Take care that he’s not a fortune-seeker.”

Elaine suddenly broke into giggles.

“Haven’t you ever heard of the Berkeleys? They own a shipping company, Abbey House in Somerset, Devonshire House, a castle on the Severn . . . Heavens, they own Berkeley Square!”

“That  may  all  be  true,  but  Eve  heard  that  some London bucks are heavily into gaming, throwing away hundreds of thousands of pounds in one night! They give  the  appearance  of  wealth  even  while  they  are deeply in debt.”

Elaine ignored the remark, staring dreamily up at the ceiling.

“He is attractive in a strange sort of way . . .” “Lord Berkeley?” Rosalie questioned, and Elaine nodded. “Mmmmn. He is tall and I’ll admit rather unfashionably dark, but his manner is quite fascinating. Most of the time he wears a dreadfully bored expression—” “Of course. Hence, everyone must seek to entertain

him.”

“—but  occasionally  he  flashes  the  most  charming smile  you’ve  ever  seen.  All  he  needs  is  a  woman’s gentle influence to moderate him.”

“Is he a dandy?”

“He  dresses  well,”  Elaine  conceded,  “but  I  don’t believe  his  cravat  was  as  high  as  fashion  demands. Why, some of the extracts last night wore them up to the ears!”

“Ridiculous,” Rosalie pronounced, leaning forward in enjoyment.   “I’ve   heard   them   speak.   Ridiculous creatures, lisping and playing with words until their speech is barely intelligible. Is he like that?”

“No, no, not at all. At least, I don’t think so. I wasn’t able to talk with him. But I’ll attract his notice somehow. He’s the catch of a lifetime.”

“And so are you.” Rosalie patted Elaine’s pale, dainty hand. Suddenly she didn’t wish to hear any more about people she would never meet or about balls the like of which she would never attend.

“And there’s someone else I haven’t mentioned yet, the most divine viscount from—”

“I  would  like  to  hear  more  about  this,”  Rosalie interrupted, painting on a smile, “. . . later. For now, don’t you think we should practice your French lesson?”

“Mercy, no.”

“Merci,” Rosalie corrected, and Elaine moaned. “I feel a distinct pain in my temples.” “You need a brisk walk and fresh air. I’ll go with you.”

“I need to rest. Bring me some orange-flower water and a handkerchief, please. And tell Cook I would like luncheon brought up in an hour. Oh, give my white slippers to Amille. The ribbons need repairing.” A note of  condescension  had  entered  Elaine’s  tone  as  she spoke, reminding Rosalie momentarily of Lady Win throp.

“Of course,” Rosalie murmured in a voice so docile that her reply was a parody of submissiveness. The sarcasm was completely lost on Elaine. Rosalie gathered up the thin slippers and closed the door as she left.

Cautiously   she   glanced   up   and   down   the passageway, assuring herself that no one was nearby before she removed her own shoes and tried on the dainty white dancing slippers. Slowly she moved across the floor, gathering the excess of her skirt in one hand as she marveled at the feel of heeiless silk shoes made especially for dancing. “No, thank you,” she mimicked with the slightest touch of disinterest in her voice. “I’ve danced  so  much  tonight  that  I  could  not  possibly subject my toes to one more waltz. And the hour is quite late, you know. The monotony of these gatherings becomes quite dreadful, does it not?” In her mind the man she spoke to did not answer, merely looked at her with a smile tinged with mockery, and eyes filled with .

.  Ah,  what  was  the  word  in  French?  Savoir-faire. Directly  translated,  it  meant  “know-how-to-do.”  The question was, Rosalie pondered curiously, know-howto-do what?

“Damn them all!” the aging Earl of Berkeley said in disgust. “We’ll have another war with the French if this trade policy continues. The Berkeley affairs across the Channel are in a fine mess.” His hawkish face was pale and lined heavily, his gnarled hands tapping impatiently on the desk. Similar to most of the furniture in the country house, the desk was unfashionably old, bracketed  in  a  Chinese  style with  claw-and-bal!  feet.  The massive furniture and the heavy-handed style in which the  library  was  decorated  suited  the  earl,  who possessed an impressive and intimidating presence. “I assumed as much. Otherwise you wouldn’t have

sent for me.”

“All of your philanderings in London can wait until you return from France,” the earl said, looking at his eldest grandson with exasperation that bordered on the extreme. For one reason or another, a conversation with Randall, as the earl was fond of saying, usually ruined one’s digestion.

It was often said that they were two of a kind. Rand’s face was a darker, smoother version of the Berkeley mold, and he seemed to have an innate callousness that was appropriate for a member of this particular family. He was certainly a legitimate Berkeley, being “a man of no mean parts, though very loose principles,” a description commonly given to the men of the family. There was much to criticize about his upbringing, however, including the fact that Randall had never been taught the value of constancy. He had the reputation of being both  reckless  and  heartless,  and  the  ear!  had  the justifiable suspicion that Randall had earned it well. “I’ll  take  care  of  everything,”  Rand  said  lightly,

ignoring the earl’s scowl.

“I have not told you the worst of our troubles yet.” “Oh?”

“It came out in the Times today. Berkeley Shipping recently delivered a cargo of cotton from New Orleans to France. A Mr. Graham at the port of Havre discovered that those blasted American merchants have been hiding stones in the cotton bales!”

Rand  winced  at  the  revelation.  Practices  such  as concealing heavy articles in the cotton served to drive the weights and therefore the prices up, damaging the credibility of the company that delivered the shipment.

Such  a  discovery  could  mean  disaster  for  a  highly profitable business.

“How bad is it?” he inquired, and the earl’s answer came back like a shot.

“Over one thousand pounds of stones concealed in merely fifty bales!”

Suddenly Rand’s eyes lit with amusement despite his efforts to remain serious. Of the Americans he had met so far, he liked them as a general matter of course, mainly  because  this  sort  of  behavior  was  typical  of them.

“Cheeky devils,” he observed, and his grandfather glowered at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it immediately.”

“And not only will you persuade the port to let future shipments through, you will also find some way to assure that the bales are no longer fraudulent.” “If I have to pick the cotton myself,” Rand said. “A far more apt occupation for you than taking care

of the family business,” the earl remarked.

“I appreciate your confidence.”

“Any other questions?”

Rand’s face faded to implacability again. “No.” “Aren’t you curious as to why I’ve entrusted this to

you instead of Colin?”

Rand remained silent, but something in his expression  flickered  subtly  at  the  mention  of  his  younger brother.

“I  see  you  are,”  the  earl  continued,  and  his  lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Gad, it amazes me that your mother, that flighty bit of French nonsense, managed to produce two boys before she died. I see her in both of you . . . but especially in you. You look like a Berkeley, boy, but you were minted a d’Angoux. Same aversion to bearing the weight of any responsibility on your shoulders.” He paused, and his expression sharpened. “It pains me that you are the firstborn heir. Colin is a fop, but I’d trust him with my last farthing. He understands money. Give him a penny, he’ll make it a pound before the day is through.”

“Most likely through ill-gotten means.”

“You  miss  my  point,”  the  earl  said  sardonically. “According  to  common  tradition,  you  will  inherit everything save what is reserved for Colin. I must see if you are capable of handling it. If not, I will use what means I can to divide the estate between you, much as I would prefer to hand it over intact. But I am unable to picture you making weighty decisions with the proper care, and I cannot see the rest of the family looking up to you as the proper shepherd of the flock, not with that flippant  attitude  of  yours.  I  must  confess  I  do  not believe you are remotely deserving of the entirety of the Berkeley holdings.”

As always, Rand irritated the older man by treating a weighty matter as if it were nothing of much consequence. His attitude was careless, as if it didn’t matter to him whether the Berkeleys doubled their fortune or went to hell in a hand basket.

“I am certain that I am not, sir,” the younger man said wryly. “However, being deserving has no bearing on whether or not I am capable of handling it. You may rest  secure  on  two  points.  I  will  keep  the  Berkeley fortune intact whenever it happens to be transferred to my  care.  And  second,  I  don’t  foresee  that  such  a situation will occur for a good many years. Your health, as always, is—”

“My  health is  failing. Haven’t  you seen  that?  The thing I desire most is the security of my lands and sundry possessions. And my demise is approaching all the quicker because of my fears about you.” The earl’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Rand with something akin to dislike. “What sort of bird are you?” he asked slowly. “You seem to care about nothing. What are your wants,  your  weaknesses?  Women?  Gaming?  God knows it’s not strong drink—”

“Thanks to my father’s tender care, I’ve developed a ready caution for that.”

Rand’s general moderation in drink was well-known, for as a boy his father had often forced red wine on him as a preventive measure for gout. It had not taken long for Rand to become an alcoholic. As a teenager he had been in a lamentable condition even after the death of his one remaining parent. Without the intervention of his grandmother he would have drunk himself into the grave by now.

“All I know is that I’ve done my best for you, boy, and so far you’ve failed me. When are you going to get married? When will I see an heir?”

“An heir,” Rand repeated with weariness edging his voice.  “I  suppose  you’ll  see  one  when  I  discover  a woman I’d care to mix my blood with.”

“Great Gad, boy, it’s not as if there aren’t hundreds of prime candidates who would accept you! Have you ever been attracted to a decent woman, the marrying kind?” the earl pressed.

“I don’t recall—”

“Damn, am I missing a discussion of Rand’s romantic activities?” Colin’s smooth drawl disturbed the atmosphere. “Might liven up a dreadfully boring afternoon.” He sauntered into the room, conscious as always of his appearance with every step he took. The thin tissue of his slippers made no sound on the floor. He wore a rich purple coat, the back divided into pleated tails that fastened with hip buttons. A brilliant white vest and canary-yellow  trousers  completed  the  outfit.  Colin raised his hand to his forehead, drawing attention to the carefully tousled condition of his blond locks. Though  they  were  only  two  years  apart  it  was

difficult to see the physical resemblance between Colin and  Rand.  It  was  generally  agreed  that  Colin  had inherited the looks in the family, for he was exquisitely made in both face and form. His skin was pale and polished, his eyes a remarkably pure green. Slim and elegantly turned limbs were enhanced by his graceful,

catlike way of moving. The dandies he associated with were often moved to comment enviably on the bounty that nature had bestowed on Colin Berkeley, for every feature, every gesture, every accent of his words was nothing short of perfect. Rand, in contrast, had been cast in a different, rougher mold. His eyes were the murkier hue of hazel, the green often sullied by an indistinguishable shade of brown. He was much darker than Colin, his skin unfashionably dark and his hair a deep shade of amber rather than bright gold. Rand was also  much  taller,  his  body  lean  but built with solid muscles and powerful proportions. It was a body that was well-suited for physical labor, and as such it was inappropriate for an aristocrat, who was supposed to be as far removed from work as possible. Physical exertion was a burden for the lower classes to bear, not the nobility.

The  brothers  exchanged  an  assessing  glance,  and then  Colin  smiled  slyly.  “What  is  the  most  recent complaint?” he inquired with relish.

“He should be married,” the earl replied, regarding Colin  with  disgust.  “And  you  should  have  been  a woman. You’re too damned cattish and exquisite to be a grandson of mine. You and your friends usurp your manners, your costume, your values, from women. You have a woman’s way about you, and I dislike it.”

Unfazed by the words, Colin raised his nose slightly. “Grandfather, it is a privilege of aristocracy to be an exquisite. And if you care to discuss appearances, turn your  attention  to  Rand.  Hair  cropped  as  short  as  a bruiser’s, the language of a mill worker. Not to mention skin as dark as a Gypsy’s.”

Rand’s wide mouth quirked slightly. “At least I wear no dandy’s corsets,” he remarked, and Colin stared at him coolly, placing long white hands on his nipped-in waist.

There was no love lost between the brothers, perhaps because they were close in age and had fought bitterly in childhood. Still, Rand sometimes found in his heart an odd sort of affection for Colin, who was as harmless as he was effeminate. He let Colin’s barbs bounce off him, for they did him no damage.

“Why have you left your pursuits in London?” Colin inquired.

“I’m  off  to  France  soon  to  settle  a  few  business problems.”

“Really.” Colin viewed him through a quizzing glass with  delicately  arched  fingers,  frowning at  first and then resorting to a snicker. “Dear me, how entertaining. I wish you good fortune.” He walked across the room to a decanter of brandy and poured himself a glass. “What exactly are you going to take care of?” The earl handed him the paper and Colin scanned it idly as he spoke to Rand. “I caught word of your appearance at the gala last week. No tender morsel caught your interest?”

“White dresses, blond curls, hopeful girls with damp palms,  scowling  dowagers,  simpering  mamas.  No, nothing caught my interest.”

“Really,”  Colin  said,  addressing  the  earl,  “one  can hardly blame him.”

“Someone can,” Rand replied lazily, detaching himself from the scene and pausing at the doorway. “I have some affairs to take care of in London before I leave—”

“Why don’t you begin to establish some court connections  while  you’re  there?”  the  earl  suggested moodily.

“I’ll leave  Colin  to court the  prince. He  has  a far greater aptitude for humoring the royal inanities than I.”

“Saint  Lucifer!”  Colin  sputtered,  brandy  spraying over the paper. “Stones in the cotton?”

“Au revoir,” Rand said softly, grinning at his brother’s discomfiture before he disappeared from sight.

“Your brother has quicksilver in his veins,” the earl observed when he was gone. “No blood. No sense of family, no morals.”

“He has morals,” Colin corrected, lowering his quizzing glass and removing his attention from the empty doorway. His smile became tinged with saccharin, as if a sweet memory had suddenly turned sour. “His behavior is consistent with his own set of values, although from where he derived them I have no idea.”

“I  can  enlighten  you.  He  behaves  exactly  like  the bucks he runs with. A spoiled lot of carousers.” “But they do have their own particular set of ethics,”

Colin said consideringly. “Ones I don’t agree with, to be sure. Their object is to ‘carouse,’ as you put it, whereas mine is to achieve perfection in the subtle arts of life, in everything from manners to tying a cravat—”

“In short, you care about the insignificant and scorn what is meaningful, while Rand and his crowd make it a point to scorn everything in general.” The earl harrumphed  in  displeasure  before  continuing.  “Enjoy  it while you may. When I go you won’t be able to afford such  dandified  luxuries on  the  allowance  Rand will make for you.”

Colin lifted his eyebrows, peering down at his grandsire haughtily. “I have no doubt Rand will be generous.” “You will have to depend on that, won’t you?” the earl remarked acidly, and wiped the slack corners of his mouth with a handkerchief.

“It is an ironic situation,” Colin mused. “Considering that Rand cares not a whit for money—”

“And you worship it.”

“And you expect,” Colin said, “that when you pass on, your departed son’s offspring will provide a fine show, scrabbling for your leavings as you watch from above”—he paused delicately—”or below. I pity us all.” He pretended a yawn and left the room, searching in his sleeve for a snuffbox.

As soon as Rand arrived in London, he supped with his companions at the club, making last-minute plans to celebrate  his  journey  to  France.  He  relaxed  in  their company as he did at no other time, feeling free from constraints and cares, appearing almost boyish as he participated in the general merriment of the club. Every one of the aristocratic members of White’s, originally White’s Coffeehouse, were devoted to witticisms and gambling. The Earl of Chesterfield once wrote to his son that a member of a gaming club should be a cheat or he would soon be a beggar. Here at White’s the statement was often proved to be prophetic.

Rand enjoyed plying his luck at the tables, yet there was a fine edge to his character that guarded him from making such a pursuit an ingrained habit. It was not the loss of money that made him cautious, but rather the prospect of losing his control, and so he played faro and hazard with the attitude of a man who mocked himself. What he forbore to mention to the rest of the Berkeleys was that Colin had no such self-restraint and that his gambling    could    someday    become    something dangerous.  Even  though  Colin  had  always  enjoyed stupendous luck, it could someday vanish with the flick of a card. Huge losses at the tables caused many a tragic end for those who frequented the most popular clubs. Families  were  bankrupted,  lives  were  ruined  and ended,  all  amid  intoxication,  excitement,  and  merriment. “White’s,” Rand had quipped once, “will be the undoing of the English nobility.” His comment was still passed between the members of the club with delight.

On this particular night there was a mild commotion inside the club, stemming from the collapse of a man just outside the door. They carried him in and laid him out on a mahogany-framed couch, wagers flying thick and furious.

“Fifty guineas he dies.” “A hundred he lives.”

“A hundred he’s only drunk.”

“Don’t call a physician—that will affect the odds!” Rand shook his head in disgust and suggested laconically that more amusement was to be had in a disreputable tavern. Half-drunk already, a large group of club members offered to accompany him to the Rummer, once frequented by the recently self-exiled Beau Brummell, and they took off into the streets of London. “I say, have you heard that your brother’s luck is

changing?” George Selwyn the Second remarked lei surely as they established a common pace.

Rand slid him a curious glance. “No, I hadn’t,” he replied with an offhandedness that contrasted greatly with the sudden narrowing of his eyes.

“He owes me close to a hundred pounds. Of course, I am not mentioning this as a point of concern, for it’s obvious  that  the  Berkeleys  can  make  good  on  their debts. I am—”

“Just making conversation?” Rand inquired softly. He continued  to  lead  the  way  to  the  tavern  with  a controlled stride and a mild frown. Colin’s gambling was  a  developed  habit.  Winning  constantly  made  it acceptable. Losing constantly was quite another thing.

Rosalie settled into her seat with excited anticipation, clasping the round shape of her embroidered stocking purse  as  her  gaze  flew  around  the  Covent  Garden theater.

“I can’t believe we’re here, Maman. You are so good to me,”  she  said,  looking  upward  to  take  in  the breathtaking  appearances  of  the  aristocrats  in  their private boxes. Most of the women wore diamonds in their  hair,  around  their  necks,  on  their  wrists  and fingers. Their gowns for the most part were diaphanous, shaded in pastel or white, cut so low that Rosalie wondered how they could wear the garments without blushing. “How did you manage to get permission from Lady  Winthrop?”  she  asked,  and  Amille  smiled placidly.

“She is exacting but not an ogress, Rose.” Rosalie kept her opinion to herself, thinking that for

tonight she would say nothing derogatory about the baroness. Escaping into another time and place, into other people’s lives for a few hours, was worth all of the frustrations that Lady Winthrop was so fond of ladling out. She sighed in pleasure as the play began. From  the  moment  that  the  actor  Charles  Kemble stepped out onto the stage, the audience quieted and watched him intently. Although he was reputed to be a vain  man,  refusing  to  play  Caesar  because  of  the knobby knees that a Roman toga would reveal, he was also incredibly talented and chillingly dramatic. Othello was  one  of  his  finest  roles,  almost  as  good  as  the legendary  Garrick’s  Hamlet.  His  face  was  painted  a swarthy shade, his hair ebony black, his very stance conveying both the bewilderment and murderous rage of the character. He portrayed Othello in exactly the way Rosalie had imagined when she had read the play. She gripped Amille’s arm tightly as Othello began to suspect that the fair Desdemona had betrayed him with another man. The entire audience witnessed his tortured countenance with horrified delight, already anticipating the fate of sweet, innocent Desdemona. “Put out the light, and then put out the light,” Othello

rasped, declaring his intention to smother her, and his wife pleaded for mercy.

“Oh, how could he?” Rosalie whispered, thinking in frustration that the wretch had had no proof of her wrongdoing! Othello clutched a pillow.

“He loves her too much. He cannot see the truth,” Amille  whispered  back,  her  dark  brown  eyes  also riveted  on  the  stage.  Pitifully  Desdemona  struggled under Othello, her arms flailing helplessly. Suddenly a misguided movement sent the candle on the bedside table flying to the ground, rolling to a halt underneath one of the heavy velvet curtains that framed the stage. The action onstage did not cease even though the hem of the heavy drape began to smoke ominously. Uneasy murmurs filtered through the audience.

“Maman—”

“Wait. They will put it out,” Amille reassured Rosalie as stagehands raced to the small fire with a pair of buckets. Kemble finished off Desdemona and began a lengthy speech, obviously endeavoring to turn his listeners’  attention  away  from  the  growing  blaze.  The buckets, however, were fast proving useless, and the lifeless Desdemona suddenly gave a scream and ran offstage.

Immediately the entire theater burst into an uproar, men and women climbing over seats and shoving past each  other  to  escape  the  building.  Rosalie  gripped Amille’s hand tightly and pulled her out into the aisle. “Don’t  let  go!”  Amille  cried,  but  her  voice  was

scarcely audible in the ruckus. The aisle was filled with the press of panicked masses, and Rosalie was pummeled with elbows and arms as people pushed their way toward the exits. The scent of smoke began to tease her nostrils. Rosalie was filled with congealing worry. The danger was not in being burned, but suffocated.

“Maman!”  she  cried,  feeling  their  hands  slip  and separate, her fingers clutching in vain. Before she could find  Amille  again,  several  more  people  interceded between them. She was being carried by the crowd, jostled until her hair fell down, and it was all Rosalie could do to keep herself upright. Her eyes were wide with horror as she saw people fall and become trampled by frantic feet.

Dimly she saw the doorway and by some miracle was pushed through it breathless but unharmed. The crowd was like an uncorked bottle of champagne forced through the small opening in an uncontrollable rush. Outside,  however,  the  danger  did  not  cease,  for pickpockets and vagrants were already taking advantage of the mass confusion. Rosalie struck out blindly as she felt a brief tug at her waist, but it was too late. Her stocking purse had been cut neatly from her waistband. “Amille Belleau!” she shouted hoarsely at the hordes of people flying right and left. There was no sign of her mother. Unconsciously Rosalie clapped a hand to her mouth  and  tried  to  focus  on  her  next  step.  It  was impossible to return inside the theater.

Just then she felt a thick, brawny arm encircle her waist, and she screamed in reaction as she was lifted off her feet.

“Let me go!” she gasped, digging her nails into her captor’s arm. As he cursed and dropped her, she caught the scent of a foul puff of breath. Rosalie was consumed with revulsion. It was the first time she had ever been held by a man. She fled down South Hampton Street and then took a quick left, ducking into one alley after another, all of them as rank as they were dark. When she no longer heard his footsteps she leaned against a damp  wall  and  tried  to  subdue  her  breathing. Everything  had  taken  the  semblance  of  a  disjointed nightmare. In the distance she could hear the screams of others who had not been as fortunate in escaping the vagrants  and  muggers.  Tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she thought of Amille, praying that she was all right. They had never been separated before; in fact, Rosalie had never been in a situation when no one knew of her whereabouts.

Suddenly a hand reached for her, and she gave a cry of terror, discovering that her pursuer had been only a few feet away around the corner. Her fear made her swift  as  he  came  after  her.  Desperately  Rosalie  acknowledged that the odds of escaping him were not in her favor. She was hampered by long skirts and light slippers  that  did  little  to  protect  her  feet  from  the ground. Furthermore, she had no experience of these mustard-bricked London streets, which were becoming dirtier  and  shabbier  as  she  ran.  I  must  be  heading toward the East End, Rosalie thought in panic, knowing that she was approaching the worst crime district in the world. There was a rotten smell in the air, of corners and ditches filled with foul matter, awaiting the longoverdue rain that would wash them clean. If she could only find a way to outmaneuver the man who chased her   and   somehow   find   her   way   back   toward Westminster! Her side ached with cramps. She put a hand  under  her  rib  cage  as  she  turned  down  yet another soot-dusted alley, and discovered with an inner quake that her luck had run out. It was a dead end, and by the time she swung around the man was at the entrance. His arms were brawny like those of a dockworker, his age probably advanced beyond his thirties.

“Leave me alone. I can get money for you,” Rosalie breathed, trembling profusely.

He walked toward her without answering, his face blank of intelligence or mercy. Rosalie was afraid she would not be able to bear what seemed inevitable. She made one last desperate attempt to run. He caught her easily as she tried to slip past him, catching a handful of her hair. He was like an animal, unwashed, uncivilized, without any sort of human sensibilities. To survive in a world such as this it was necessary to brutalize those who were weaker. Rosalie cried out, fighting the hands that snatched at her gown.

Through the nightmarish haze she heard the sound of loud and drunken voices near the entrance of the alley. Her  impression  was  a group  of young  blades,  their clothes  a  jumble  of  white,  blue,  yellow,  and  black, idling through Fleet Street. Evidently they were celebrating something, for there was much laughter and even snatches of song as they came from a nearby club or tavern. Rosalie continued to scream, knowing that they were her last chance of avoiding the violation of her body and her life. As they became aware of the tiny commotion  in  the  dark  alley,  the  man’s  grunts,  the woman’s cries, and the swish of her skirts, they began to laugh uproariously and  made  catcalls,  continuing their leisurely pace down the street. Rosalie used her fingernails once more, aiming for her captor’s eyes with a viciousness she had never believed herself capable of. Although she didn’t succeed in wounding him, he dealt her an openhanded blow, sending her hurtling through the alley opening. It was indeed a night of firsts, for she had  never  been  struck  before.  Rosalie  fell  into  the middle of the crowd of elegant extracts, sinking into dark oblivion as she dropped to the ground, her cheek coming to rest on the toe of a soft leather boot.

“What have you done, that the Goddess of Chance should cast such pearls in your path?” one of the bucks asked the owner of the expensive boot, and a small gathering formed around the crumpled figure on the ground.

“A  nice  little  piece,”  Rand  commented,  kneeling down to lift the delicately curved face off his foot. She was out cold. Her hair streamed everywhere in endless swaths of silky brown, curling gently across the filthy pavement. Thoughtfully he cupped her head in one hand as he considered her features. Although somewhat  sooty,  her  face  was  perfectly  symmetrical,  her cheekbones high but not sharp, lips deeply curved. Her body was clothed in the simple garb of a house servant, yet the moderate swell of her breasts and the neat turn of her waist were discernible nonetheless. He found her figure fairly pleasing. Through the dirt it was obvious that her skin was as unblemished as a child’s, and he felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy as he saw the tracks of tears on her cheeks. “Obviously overwhelmed by such gentle courting,” he said, his tone indifferent and  yet  faintly  acidic.  Around  him  there  was  a predictable chorus of wagers.

“Twenty guineas he leaves her.”

“Twenty-five that she warms the Berkeley damask tonight.”

“Fifty that he won’t be able to best her companion.” Protests and cheers emanated from the rakes as Rand

grinned and hoisted her up over one shoulder. Chance had indeed thrown her at his feet tonight, and he saw no reason why he should refuse it. There was, however, still another matter to consider.

“You  care  to  challenge  me  for  the  wench?”  he inquired calmly of the lout in the alley entrance. He was answered by a bitter stare and a thick accent. “She’s mine. I chased her through ‘alf of London.” “For your trouble, then,” Rand said, and flipped a

guinea  to  him.  The  dockworker  caught  the  shining piece in one fist and remained where he was. “She’s mine now,” Rand pointed out softly, his dark hazel eyes resting steadily on the man, and after long hesitation the lout slunk away.

“You could get a good whore for half that,” George Selwyn remarked, eyeing the trim backside of the body slung so snugly over Rand’s shoulder.

“And you’re not including the cost of cleaning the soot from my sheets,” Rand added as he strode away, causing a general round of laughter.

“Berkeley,” Selwyn said, walking hurriedly to keep pace with him, “you have little need of a woman in the midst of preparing to leave at dawn for France.” “Never fear, I’ll fit her into my schedule somehow.” “Do  me  this  favor  .  .  .  send  her  to  my  doorstep

tomorrow  morning,  and  I’ll  give  you  my  new  bays when you return. Perfectly matched, fifteen and a half hands high, not a white hair between them.”

Rand slid him a skeptical look. “If she means that much  to  you,  then  throw  in  a  cancellation  of  my brother’s debt to you as well.”

George  Selwyn  sighed  and  nodded  reluctantly.  “I only hope she’s worth it.”

“So do I,” Rand said, flashing a wicked conspiratorial grin at his companion.

Transporting a limp form, no matter how light or small, was a nuisance, especially all the way back to his apartments in Berkeley Square. Rand laid her across the small seat of his one-horse, four-wheel chaise, a light vehicle that was suitable for driving pell-mell through the cobbled streets of London. She stirred not a whit even as he carried her through the door of his bedroom. Rand’s first inclination was to have his valet clean up his new acquisition while he prepared for bed. This particular  manservant  was  a  valuable  employee, accustomed  to  keeping  his  mouth  closed  no  matter what the circumstances or provocation. But on second thought, Rand decided to perform the task himself. She was  so  small,  so  vulnerable,  that  he  was  oddly disinclined to let her out of his sight.

Gently he laid her on the fine Colerain linen bedspread, stripping her gown and stockings off efficiently and discovering that her underclothes were well-worn but scrupulously clean. Dampening a cloth with some water from a white porcelain pitcher, he wiped the soot from  her  face,  revealing  tender  skin  that  shone  like satin.  Her  features  were  a  marvel  to  behold,  even robbed as they were of expression or animation. Her body, divested of all but a chemise of thin cambric, was nothing  short  of  magnificent.  Slender,  yes,  but  undoubtedly womanly. How had she come to be in the situation he had witnessed tonight? he wondered, removing the grime from her arms and neck carefully. She did not appear to be a whore, but neither was she a member  of  the  gentry.  Her  limbs  were  slim  and capable-looking,  without  the  delicate  roundness  that characterized ladies of nobility. She engaged in some kind of labor, yet it was not overly exacting, judging from the beauty of her hands. Absently he wound a lock  of  her  hair  around  his  fingers.  The  mahogany silkiness of it gleamed richly in the lamplight, as though it had taken on its own life.

“Sweet angel,” Rand murmured, “‘tis a pity you’re unconscious.”

Rosalie  stirred  slowly,  her  mind  rising  from  the incoherent darkness. There was a dull ache that spread over her entire body, but most intense was the pain that stretched from temple to temple. A soft exhalation came from her mouth as she struggled to open her eyes. She was laid out on a mattress of some sort, in a room that was quietly lit, the yellow warmth of lamplight bathing the air. Painfully she tried to recall what had happened, her last memory being the scene in the alley, the echo of her own cries coming back to haunt her. What had happened?

Giving a brief moan, she raised her fingertips to her forehead, feeling stabs of pain rebound through her skull. She must have been brought back home, Rosalie thought, becoming aware that she was in a bedroom and that there was a presence beside her.

“Martian?”  she  whispered,  and  ignored  the  sharp throbbing of her head as she shifted slightly. Starded, she encountered the sight of a man sitting on the edge of the bed.

“So they’re blue,” he said huskily, looking at her eyes, and she stared at him in wonder. She had never seen anyone  like  him.  About  him  there  was  a  peculiar appearance of vibrancy, of darkness overlaid with gold. Lurking behind the grave lines of his mouth was the possibility of tenderness, yet she was not certain of it. His features were not strictly handsome, being aggressively made and lacking delicacy, and his skin was too dark  by  far.  As  Rosalie  looked  at  him  she  had  the impression of a polished surface that concealed much, and it made her uneasy. Most remarkable were his eyes, dark-rimmed and brilliant gold, and somewhere in the gold was mixed a cool green. They were assessing eyes, she decided, and suddenly the effort of keeping awake became too taxing for her. It was a dream, she thought, feeling the softness of the bed engulf her exhausted body. Her fancy had been lent life and color in the imagination of sleep, and in her abstracted condition she was glad it was over.