LITMIR.BIZ

      “When lovely woman stoops to folly

      And finds too late that men betray

      What charm can soothe her melancholy

      What art can take her guilt away?”

       —Oliver Goldsmith

       PROLOGUE

       July 1786

      IT WAS THE SOUND of the stones against the windowpane that woke her with a rattle like heavy rain on a winter’s day. She lay still for a moment, engulfed in sleep, and then the sound came again sharp as gunfire. She opened her eyes and stared at the high shadows on the ceiling. Dawn was breaking, creeping into her bedroom and dimming the candlelight. The connecting door was open and she could hear her governess, Miss Snook, snoring in the room beyond.

      A third rattle of stones sent her scurrying to the window, pulling back the heavy drapes and pushing up the sash. It was a beautiful morning outside. The sky was a soft, new blue and the sun was rising over the meadow in ribbons of gold.

      “Papa!”

      He was standing on the gravel sweep outside her window. As she watched he let the remaining stones trickle from between his fingers and then he raised his hand in a salute.

      “Lottie! Come down!” It was a whisper, carried to her on the light breeze. She cast one dubious, furtive glance toward the connecting door but Miss Snook’s snores were louder than ever. On bare feet she scampered along the corridor, down the stairs, its faded pattern gray in the pale light, and across the stone floor to the front door. The house was still with that special early-morning stillness that preceded the first stirrings of the day. Everyone slept.

      He met her on the steps, kneeling down to enfold her in his arms, and she knew at once he had not been back that night, for he smelled of smoke and ale. The odor of it was in his hair and on his clothes, and his cheek, as he pressed it against hers, was rough with stubble. Beneath those smells, faint but still exotic, was the familiar scent of his sandalwood cologne. She had always loved it.

      He held her very tightly and spoke very softly into her ear. “Lottie, I am going away. I wanted to say goodbye.”

      His words and the urgency she could feel in his touch sent a chill through her, the cold creeping up from her bare feet to wrap her entire body and set her shivering. She drew back and looked at him. “Away? Does Mama know?”

      She saw a frown come into his eyes, those brown eyes so like her own, and then he smiled at her and it felt for a moment as though the sun had come out, though for some reason she was still afraid.

      “No,” he said. “It is our secret, sweetheart. Don’t tell anyone that you saw me.” He straightened up. “I’ll come back for you soon, Lottie. I promise I will.” He touched her cheek. “Be good.”

      The church clock struck a half after four as he walked away down the drive. Lottie stood listening to the mingled chimes and the crunch of her father’s footsteps on the gravel until his tall figure turned into the lane at the end of the drive and vanished into the early-morning mist. She wanted to run after him, to catch his coat and beg him to come back. She was terrified. Her heart was thumping as it did when she ran and she could feel the tears pricking her eyelids. The sun was rising above the hills now, big and bright, shimmering golden on the mist, but Lottie felt very cold.

      She was six years old and that was the way in which her life ended the first time.

       CHAPTER ONE

       London, July 1813

      “THAT IS THE FIFTH gentleman this week to demand his money back.” Mrs. Tong, resident procuress of The Temple of Venus, strode into the opulent boudoir with a hissing swish of angry silk skirts. “One hundred guineas that cost me!” She put her hands on her hips and viewed with utter exasperation the woman sitting at the dressing table. “You are supposed to be an investment, madam!” Her genteel accent was slipping under duress. “I hired you as a novelty, an attraction, the most notorious woman in London. I did not expect a shrinking virgin.” She threw her hands up. “He said that you were so cold you unmanned him. You are supposed to be scandalous, so behave scandalously! If Lord Borrodale wanted a block

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