LITMIR.BIZ

      Spitalfields, London—February 1816, 8 p.m.

      ‘The Temple of Beauty?’ echoed Captain Alec Stewart, lifting his dark eyebrows as he eased his foil into the nearby sword rack. ‘How old are you, Harry—twenty? And still wet around the ears, my young pup. The Temple of Beauty is nothing but a den of harlots, take my word on it.’

      For the last half an hour, this dusty old hall at the heart of the east London mansion known as Two Crows Castle had echoed to the click of gleaming blades, to the muttered curses of Lord Harry Nugent, and the curt admonitions of his tutor. Now the fencing lesson was over and Harry collapsed on a bench to mop the sweat from his brow and make his plea once more.

      ‘Oh, Alec, do please say you’ll come! It’s my birthday after all. And the girls are as sweet a bunch as you’ll find in London!’

      Alec laughed aloud. ‘Trust me, they’re whores.’ Pouring out two brandies, he handed one to his pupil. ‘I’m not coming. But—happy birthday all the same.’

      Harry Nugent, inordinately rich and a truly hopeless fencer, sighed and sipped just a little of his brandy, which was rough. He let his gaze rove with a certain amount of trepidation around this lofty hall, where the chill February wind rattling at cobwebbed windows sent shadows from the candles leaping across the smokestained rafters. Then he glanced at his fencing master, who, tall and loose-limbed, looked as though the exertions of the past half-hour had affected him not one jot.

      Harry took a deep breath. ‘Alec!’

      ‘Hmmm?’

      ‘It’s really not right, you know, Alec, that you should live in a wreck like this and make your living by running a sword school. You’re a war hero, man!’

      Alec shrugged. ‘War hero or not, I’ve scarcely sixpence to scratch with, Harry. Anyway, I quite like it here.’

      Harry watched as his fencing tutor idly pulled another fine rapier from the rack and tested its balance. Alec was one of the best swordsmen in London and used to hold an enviable reputation as a captain in the Light Dragoons. Once, they said, he was light-hearted, never serious, even on the night before battle. London’s ladies used to adore him; he’d had his pick of the ton’s heiresses, and for a brief while was betrothed to one. But now … Now, he was a stranger to London’s social scene and his once-merry brown eyes were etched with cynicism.

      ‘Even so, to live like this!’ Harry couldn’t stop himself blurting it out. ‘You should take up the matter with your father, you really should! Everyone says so!’

      Alec made a gentle feint with his rapier. ‘Do they indeed say that?’ he asked softly. ‘Do you have fun discussing me with your friends around London’s clubs and watering-holes, Harry?’

      ‘No!’ protested Harry Nugent, rather flustered. ‘Well, we say nothing we wouldn’t say to your face, Alec!’ He spread out his hands in entreaty. ‘You needn’t actually—you know, do anything with any of the girls tonight. Just join us at the Temple for a bit of fun! And perhaps,’ Harry went on innocently, ‘a night away from this place would do you good. Your brother said—’

      Alec’s well-shaped, flexible fingers suddenly went very still around the hilt of his rapier. If Lord Harry Nugent had fought at his side at Waterloo, he’d have known to be wary of that look.

      ‘When, exactly,’ said Alec in a deceptively soft drawl, ‘did you see my esteemed brother?’

      ‘Why, it was mere chance, at Tellworth’s tables in St James’s last night!’

      Still in London, then. ‘And what in particular did he say?’

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