LITMIR.BIZ

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under his breath. Thanks to his damned brother, that girl, who looked like the other one, had got clean away.

      In fact, Rosalie was still there, pressed into a shadowed alcove. She saw that slowly the room was returning to normal. Dr Barnard had arrived and, suspecting there’d been trouble of some kind, he spoke curtly to his wife, who began to play the piano again extremely loudly. Dr Barnard called out that the wine was on the house and a cheer was raised; couples started returning to the dance floor.

      But Rosalie’s pulse rate showed no sign of calming.

      Something had happened to her when the Captain drew near. It wasn’t just that he was so handsome. It was because he was so different from all these other men. It was as if he was some kind of rebel, walking alone and unarmed into an enemy camp, quite heedless of any consequences. And close up, she’d been able to see even more clearly how his overlong dark hair, his ill-tied neckcloth, the shabby long coat that moulded itself to the powerful muscles of his shoulders and chest, only added to the hint of danger that blazed in those emotion-packed eyes.

      He was, quite simply, devastating. And he thought her a whore. Pay her off—or I will.

      She shivered. She saw that the man Stephen was now talking in a low voice to some footmen at the door. She didn’t want to see any more of him either, and the sooner she was out of here the better …

      ‘Ros. Ros? Thank God I’ve found you, girl.’ It was Sal, tugging at her sleeve. ‘Now listen, you’ve done me a favour, so I’ll do you one, right? Dr Barnard, he’s after you. Someone’s said to him you’ve got some connection with a London gossip rag.’

      Oh, no. Rosalie caught her breath and tried to laugh. ‘Ridiculous—what on earth makes him think that?’

      ‘No use trying flummery with this one, gal. Our Danny-boy’s told Dr B. he’s seen you out deliverin’ news sheets. And soon as he’s got everyone back and busy on the dance floor, Dr Barnard is going to be huntin’ for you, see?’

      Oh, Lord. Rosalie was already on her way, hurrying through the crowd to the back staircase.

      Down to the office first, for that all-important book of clients. Then—she’d be on her way.

      Alec was walking steadily down the stairs. His brother would do as he’d said and clear out of town for a while, no doubt of that—Stephen’s knees had actually been shaking. Though whether Stephen’s departure was the solution to a stinking mess or merely a temporary reprieve was another matter altogether.

      And Alec was still puzzled as to why Stephen was here. He’d said he had business here—unexpected business. But … with a sweet-faced whore who refused his money almost in disgust?

      Alec paused at a branching of the stairs, his brow dark with thought. When, exactly, had Stephen started hating him? Probably the day Alec was born, unfortunately.

      ‘You. Always you,’ Stephen had hissed just now.

      Long ago, on his fifth birthday, Alec had been tearing round the estate on a lively pony—his birthday gift—when it stumbled over a fallen branch on a woodland path. Alec had been thrown, breaking his leg.

      He’d imagined he saw Stephen, a little ahead of him between the trees, watching him. And days later, lying bed-bound and drowsy with medicines for the pain, he’d heard their father say to their mother, in Alec’s bedroom, ‘To think that Stephen was capable of such mischief. God help me, but, young though they are, I find myself wishing more and more that Alec were the heir …’

      His parents had not seen, as Alec had, his brother lurking outside the half-open door, his eyes venomous with the beginnings of the hatred Alec had noticed just now.

      Yes, it was Stephen who’d laid that branch across Alec’s path and their father knew it. So did the groom, who warned Alec, grim-faced, when he was getting used to riding again after his leg healed, You watch out for that brother of yours, Master Alec, sir.

      As he grew up, Alec had never cared that Stephen was the heir rather than himself. But he knew that Stephen would never forgive him for what their father had said—ever.

      He’d barely reached the first-floor landing of the Temple of Beauty when he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs above him. He glanced around. Two of Dr Barnard’s footmen, burly brutes both, were heading downwards also and he stepped aside to let them pass.

      They didn’t.

      They came directly towards him. Their faces were twisted with an emotion Alec recognised all too easily. The hunger for a fight. Damn it.

      The bigger one, a beefy wretch with some missing teeth, went for Alec with his fist, clearly intending a blow straight to the gut. But Alec caught the man a swinging punch to the jaw that made his victim stagger and fall with his hand to his mouth. More of his teeth gone, hopefully. In virtually the same moment Alec whipped back his elbow into the stomach of the other brute, driving the wind from his lungs so that he bent double and had to gasp for air.

      If they wanted a mill, they’d got it. But Alec knew this would be Stephen’s doing. And now—hell, now was going to be difficult, because three more of Dr Barnard’s henchmen were coming from the other direction, speeding up as they saw their two felled comrades struggling to their feet …

      Not playing fair, Stephen. But then, you never did. With a bit of luck Alec knew he could fling a couple of his opponents down the nearby staircase. But even so, the odds were not good. They were coming for him purposefully, with evil leers on their faces.

      ‘Oh, my brave, brave boys,’ said Alec Stewart gently, ‘five against one—but even so I’d bet money on me. Do you know why? Because you’re a bunch of thick-skulled bastards who would just turn and run at the prospect of any real fighting …’

      They charged him like enraged bulls, which was Alec’s intention. Anger slowed both brains and fists, especially when Alec, moving with light ease, tripped two of them up as they blundered forwards, then sliced another across the throat with the edge of his hand and brought his fist up beneath the fourth one’s jaw so the ruffian bit on his own tongue and let out a bloody cry of pain. But Alec knew the odds were against him; it was only a matter of time before he went down.

      Suddenly he glimpsed someone else sidling down those damned stairs. A girl looking as if she didn’t want to be seen, glancing behind her all the time as if fearing pursuit. But on hearing the noise of the fight, she turned to look down and Alec saw her gasp with shock.

      Hell. He flung another punch as one of the brutes ventured too close. It was Athena, in her diaphanous gown. Another enemy. Would the blonde-haired whore stand and gloat at his plight? Or actually join in? The latter at present seemed most likely, because as more of the brutes closed in on him she hurried down the last few steps to the landing where the action was and picked up a small pedestal table that stood in a corner.

      Dear God, thought Alec a little faintly, I’m in for it now. There was an expression on her face of utter and relentless determination. Alec mentally prepared himself for a final, nasty blow from that small but heavy table.

      Shifting her grip to hold it by its base, she swung the table hard against the thighs of his biggest opponent. The man let out a howl of outrage and toppled to his knees. Another man reached out to grab her with an oath—’Come here, you blasted—’—but she dropped the table, slipped neatly from his grasp and kneed him in the groin.

      Alec blinked. Ouch. Dirty tactics. But he could hear more footsteps, running up the stairs this time; then a familiar voice accosted his ears.

      ‘Captain! What ho, Captain Stewart, is that you?’

      Not more of Dr Barnard’s men, but curly-haired Lord Harry Nugent. Swiftly Harry took in the scene, then gestured his friends forwards with a whoop of delight. ‘Come on, lads!’ Harry cried. ‘Don’t like the odds here, against a hero of Waterloo! Let’s show ‘em a bit of the homebrewed!’ Instantly the crowd of young men launched themselves at the footmen,

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