distracts me from my duty.”
“Please. I am not a fool. Nor am I a whore. You are wasting your time. I won’t sleep with you, no matter how you might slander me to everyone you know.” Marianne’s eyes flashed. She had no idea what an arousing picture she made—her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, her lips soft and moist from his kisses.
“A thief with morals, in other words.”
The faint amusement in his voice goaded her, and Marianne opened her mouth to reply hotly. But at that moment the door opened, and a middle-aged man stepped into the room. He stopped and gaped at them.
“I say.”
“Lord Batterslee.” Lambeth nodded to the older man.
Marianne’s stomach turned to ice. Now it would come. He would tell the owner of the house that he had found her going through his study, searching for something to steal. Her only hope lay in the fact that she had nothing on her that she had stolen. But the accusation of a duke’s son would be enough to bring a constable.
“Oh. Lambeth. What the devil’s going on here?”
Lambeth smiled suggestively. “Exactly what it looks like, I’m afraid. I was…ah, seeking a place of solitude to, um, convince the lady of my regard for her.”
Heat stole into Marianne’s face. He was intimating that they had sneaked off to the smoking room for a romantic interlude. She was torn between relief that he had not turned her over to the authorities and humiliation that he was blackening her reputation.
“A tryst? In my smoking room? Really, Lambeth…”
Lambeth shrugged, and his hand went pointedly to his reddened cheek. “Not a tryst, exactly. As you can see, Mrs. Cotterwood was somewhat averse to my suggestions.” He looked toward Marianne. “You needn’t turn violent, you know. A simple no would have sufficed.”
“Don’t speak to me!” The emotion in Marianne’s choked voice was real enough. She felt as if she might burst into tears at any moment from all the conflicting feelings that were tearing at her. But she also had the presence of mind to seize the opportunity to flee. Spitting out, “You cad!” to Lambeth, she rushed out the door, skirting Lord Batterslee’s rotund form. Lord Lambeth could hardly come running after her with the other man standing right there.
She ran down the hallway to the stairs, only slowing when she came in sight of the other partygoers. It would attract attention to run down the stairs in full view of everyone, but she walked as quickly as she could, her body tensed for the sound of her name or a touch on her shoulder. However, she made it to the front doors without incident, and since there were several hackney coaches in the street in the hopes of catching fares from the party, she was able to scramble into one immediately.
To her relief, the hackney set off at a smart pace. She turned and looked out the window. There was no sign of Lord Lambeth. With any luck, he had gone back to the ballroom, thinking that she would have rejoined the party. Or perhaps he would not care enough to search for her. She doubted that Lord Lambeth had any trouble getting women; he would not need to track down a recalcitrant one. But why had he lied to Lord Batterslee? Perhaps he had hoped that he could still blackmail her with his knowledge, given a little more time to persuade her.
Marianne smiled to herself. He was going to find it difficult to see her again. No one there tonight, not even Mrs. Willoughby, knew where she lived. She was always careful to keep her private life separated from the world of what Piers called the “flats.” Besides, this was the first time that she had made a foray into the highest society of London. In years past, they had worked on the well-to-do, the Cits and lesser gentry both in London and in other cities. Their quarry had not moved in the highest circles. The last year or two, as sort of an audition, they had spent their time in the resort towns of Brighton and Bath, where she had mingled with the upper crust who were vacationing there. It had been only two months ago that they had decided to try their game among the ton of London.
She had spent the time establishing herself in London, calling on the women, such as Mrs. Willoughby, whom she had met in Bath and Brighton and who had encouraged her to visit them if she ever came to London. She had hoped to gradually work her way into their social spheres, meeting ever more people. It had been sheer good fortune that she had been calling on Mrs. Willoughby the day the woman received her coveted invitation to Lady Batterslee’s party. Gleeful and wanting someone to witness her triumph, Mrs. Willoughby had impulsively invited Marianne along, thus propelling Marianne higher and more quickly into Society than she had ever dreamed.
Now, of course, she thought gloomily, it was all ruined. Leaning back against the seat, Marianne closed her eyes and gave herself up to depressing thoughts. All their hard work…all the time and effort…all the hopes they had had of making enough money in London to retire from the Game…all was for naught. By the time the hackney stopped in front of her narrow, pleasant house on the fringes of Mayfair, Marianne was thoroughly blue.
Climbing out of the coach, she paid the driver and walked slowly toward the house. Before she could reach for the doorknob, it swung open. Winny stood in the doorway, grinning at her.
“I was watchin’ for you,” Winny confided, the proper English she had been cultivating for the past few years slipping a little, as it always did when she was excited.
She was still small, though the past few years of decent food had put more pounds on her frame and roses in her cheeks. But nothing could make up for the years of malnourishment in her youth. She and Marianne had been friends for as long as Marianne could remember, growing up as best they could in the orphanage. Winny, older than Marianne, had left St. Anselm’s two years before Marianne. She had gotten a job in service at the Quartermaine household, not far from the orphanage. On her rare days off, she had visited Marianne, and when Marianne turned fourteen and left the orphanage, Winny had recommended her to the Quartermaine housekeeper. They had been together ever since, except for the two years after Marianne had been thrown out of the Quartermaine house. But later, after Marianne was established in her new life, she had sent for Winny, and Winny had joined her new “family.” She had not had the skills that the rest of the family used to earn their way, but she had contributed by being their housekeeper, work she was well acquainted with.
“Everyone’s waiting in the sitting room,” Winny went on.
Marianne nodded, her heart sinking even lower. She knew that everyone had been excited about their first foray into the upper reaches of Society, and she hated to face them with her failure. They would be kind, of course; they always were. It was only with these outcasts that she had found kindness. But their very kindness made her feel even worse about letting them down.
She went down the hall into the sitting room, with Winny following her. They were indeed all there. Rory Kiernan, whom they all affectionately called “Da” because he was the oldest among them, was sitting on the couch with his wife, Betsy. Betsy was an expert at cards and at separating the flats from their money, and Da was one of the premiere pickpockets of London, but they were largely retired now. They were the parents of Della, the improbably dark-haired middle-aged woman who was sitting in a chair beside them, and who now sprang to her feet at Marianne’s entrance.
“Marianne!” Della grinned from ear to ear and opened her arms wide to embrace Marianne. She was a short, plump woman with twinkling brown eyes and an infectious laugh, and it was clear that she had been a beauty in her day. She was the closest thing to a mother that Marianne had known. It was she and her husband, Harrison, the short, wiry man beside her, who had rescued Marianne when she came to London over nine years ago.
Marianne had been Mary Chilton then, not quite nineteen years old, frightened and alone—and pregnant. Working as a maid in the Quartermaine household, she had caught the eye of the eldest son, Daniel, when he had been sent down from Oxford. To pass the time, Daniel had first flirted with her, then wooed her with seductive words and sweet promises. Naively, she had thought that he loved her, and for a brief time she had been very happy. But when his words of love did not prevail upon her to come to his bed, he had taken her by force. Crushed and heartbroken, Marianne had gone to the housekeeper, who had told her that she