LITMIR.BIZ

      Lord Maybury came frowning back into the hall. ‘No sign of any hackneys at all and it’s started to rain, so it could be some time before we find one. Now, I will brook no argument, my dear Rosalie; my own driver will take you home.’

      ‘No, really.’ Everything seemed to be getting worse and worse. She shook her head, but he was already adjusting her cloak around her shoulders as he led her outside.

      ‘I absolutely insist,’ he said firmly. It had begun to rain hard and Piccadilly was crowded with pedestrians and vehicles. ‘My carriage should be just down the road. Stay here, will you, while I tell the driver to bring it round?’

      She watched him stride off. Then she blinked. Of all people, there was Biddy, hurrying towards her along the wet, crowded street, with her brother Matt at her heels. What on earth …? And Biddy was holding Katy in her arms.

      ‘Biddy! Matt! Oh, Katy darling!’

      The small child, wrapped up in a cloak against the rain and clutching her rag doll, looked fretful. ‘Want Mama. Want Mama.’

      Quickly Rosalie gathered Katy close. ‘Poor lamb, hush now … Biddy, what are you doing here with Katy, at this hour?’

      Biddy looked breathless and terrified. ‘There’s been a fire! At Miss Helen’s house!’

      ‘A fire!’

      ‘Yes,’ said Matt grimly. ‘Started deliberately, the constables reckon!’

      Oh, no. ‘Tell me everything.’

      ‘Miss Helen and the children got out in time,’ Biddy went on in a trembling voice. ‘My brothers Matt and Dickon and little Joe did everything they could to put it out, but by the time the fire engine arrived, the place was a ruin! Mr Francis, he came straight away, and she and little Toby have gone to stay with him and his sister. But little Katy was crying so hard for you, Miss Rosalie, that Helen said to take her to you and to tell you to join her at Mr Francis’s house in St John’s Square, see.’

      No. Rosalie’s stomach clenched in anguish. Not possible—for this fire must be the work of Alec Stewart, continuing to wreak revenge for her allegations about his rackrenting. And if he started to guess that she knew about him and Linette, he would be even more dangerous. Rosalie could not abuse Helen’s friendship still further by endangering her in her new-found place of safety with Mr Wheeldon.

      Then Biddy was curtsying wide-eyed, because Lord Maybury was back, his gaze immediately fastening on Katy in Rosalie’s arms. He didn’t look pleased. ‘What’s this?’ he said rather abruptly.

      ‘Some bad news,’ breathed Rosalie. ‘There’s been a fire at the house where I live.’

      He stepped back in shock. ‘I’m so sorry. How terrible.’

      Rosalie said quickly to Biddy, ‘Please tell Helen I’ll be all right. Tell her to look after herself and Toby; I’ll send word to her in the morning.’

      Matt was stepping forwards, squaring his broad shoulders. ‘Now, Miss Helen said we was to see you safe to Mr Francis’s house, isn’t that so, Biddy? Or you could stay with us.’

      Rosalie summoned the last of her strength. ‘Thank you, but my mind’s quite made up. I’ll find lodgings close by.’ There were several small, respectable hotels round here and she and Katy would be safe enough, for one night at least. But what next? Her head was reeling.

      ‘I’ll be off, then, and tell Miss Helen you’re fine.’ But Biddy still looked worried. ‘Oh …’ and she reached inside her cloak ‘… Miss Helen sent this for you.’ She handed over a folded note, which Rosalie pushed in her pocket; then, darting one last shy glance at Stephen, Biddy hurried away with Matt.

      ‘Rosalie,’ Stephen was saying, ‘what dreadful news about this fire! For the sake of your child, you must allow me to take you straight to my house in Brook Street, where my staff will see that you have everything you need, both of you.’ He reached out to touch Katy’s hand, but Katy started crying.

      Rosalie was shaking her head. ‘No. I cannot accept. My intention is to find lodgings.’ She was already reaching in her reticule for her purse. But cold fingers of dread, as well as nausea, were stealing down her spine. It had gone. Her purse, with all her money, had gone.

      Just then, a fast-moving hackney cab splashed through a puddle close to the kerb and sent water flying up to soak Rosalie’s cloak and boots. Katy was crying bitterly in her arms.

      Stephen put his hand on Rosalie’s shoulder. ‘This is no time to go looking for lodgings with the child. Surely you realise she could catch a dangerous chill if she’s out in this rain for much longer. Look, there’s my coach.’ He was already guiding her towards an elegant vehicle with a coat of arms emblazoned on its doors.

      What he said was all too true; Katy was shivering and sobbing, ‘Mama, Mama.’ Rosalie was feeling dizzy now, as well as sick.

      Stephen was calling curtly to his driver. ‘Take us to Brook Street.’

      And he climbed in after her, watching her from the corner of his eye as the carriage rolled away.

      This was his chance. His chance to investigate this girl who looked like the other one. This girl who, even in her drab, damp-stained clothes, was a tempting little beauty. The gin he’d paid the waiter to slip in her drink had achieved its purpose swiftly in fuddling her wits. His man Markin had done well, too, in getting information from the slut Sal that the girl had a sister who was dead. Markin had also got the fire started at exactly the right time.

      There was just one problem. No one, unfortunately, had made any mention of this woman Rosalie having a child—Stephen detested children. But that was a minor issue. He had her in his power, and now was his chance to find out exactly what mischief she might be about to stir up.

      Alec Stewart had spent the afternoon at his father’s house, gathering up the possessions the Earl had ordered him to remove.

      The Earl had gone to Carrfields with his young wife and the big house was quiet as Alec sorted through his various maps and campaign diaries, his bound volumes of war sketches done by talented comrades and some books about eighteenth-century art that he’d inherited from his mother. She’d died in a hunting accident when Alec was ten and the whole house, for Alec, still bore the stamp of her loving devotion to her family. Many of the paintings around the house had been hers.

      Jarvis, his father’s loyal steward, had helped him to pack up some biographies of the commanders Alec had idolised in his youth. ‘A pity we see you here so rarely nowadays, sir,’ Jarvis had said gravely.

      ‘My father’s got a new wife, Jarvis. Things were bound to change.’

      Jarvis’s silence was telling.

      ‘Have you heard from Carrfields yet?’ Alec asked.

      ‘Indeed, sir, they arrived safely. And the longer they stay there, the better.’

      Another enigmatic remark. ‘The country air will certainly do my father’s health good,’ agreed Alec. But he reckoned that wasn’t what loyal old Jarvis meant.

      He’d filled up three packing crates and Jarvis had promised to have them sent over to Two Crows Castle the next morning. ‘My thanks.’ Alec nodded. ‘I’ll be back for more in a day or so.’ He was already on his way to the door, when something in the entrance hall caught his eye. He halted. ‘Do you see that painting, Jarvis?’

      ‘Which one, sir?’

      ‘The oil, of the British troops at Blenheim.’ Alec stepped closer. ‘It looks different. Brighter. Or has it always been like that?’

      ‘Lord

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