Elinor was sitting alone in the refurbished parlor, rereading a book of philosophy. There was a thick Persian carpet on the floor, heavy damask drapes covering the dreary windows, and the chair beneath her was sinfully comfortable. There was a good fire in the grate, the new table had fresh spring flowers, and the place no longer stank of poverty and death. It was pleasant, comfortable, even if she had to thank Rohan for it all.

She’d allowed Lydia to accompany Etienne on his rounds that afternoon, after her morning visit to the market. Lydia had returned, flushed and abstracted, retiring to the bedroom until the doctor arrived. By then she was her usual sweet, smiling self, the shadow gone from her eyes. Almost. What could have happened at the market, with Jacobs close by, that could have overset her?

It was probably her active imagination. She was so used to disaster that it was hard to believe that disaster had been averted. If things continued as they were, Lydia would marry the doctor and bring Nanny Maude and Jacobs into their household. Elinor would even be willing to face the King of Hell in his den in order to make that possible.

And then she’d be blissfully, deliriously free. The thought was terrifying, intoxicating. One thing was certain—she wouldn’t move in with her sister. She could already see the way Etienne’s mind worked, and he would doubtless welcome another conscripted pair of hands, someone to work for the dubious charity of a bed and food.

She would find something, anything. She might travel back to England—surely there was something she could do. Her education had been sadly neglected—she was dismal at watercolors, her attempts on the pianoforte were painful for all and her knitting was disastrous. She could, however, translate Latin with dizzying speed, and presumably still ride a horse, if rumors were true and you never lost that particular skill.

At least her plain looks would be to her advantage if she were to apply for work as a governess. No woman wanted a pretty creature who might lure either the young gentlemen of the household or, even worse, the patriarch. Surely she could—

The knock on the door broke through these ruminations, and for a moment her stomach knotted in crazed hope, and she half rose from her chair, wanting to race to the door.

She sat back down, taking a deep, calming breath as Jacobs went to answer the summons, but she knew immediately that the caller was a stranger. As expected, Viscount Rohan had forgotten her existence.

“Baron Tolliver to see you, Miss Elinor,” Jacobs announced in his most proper voice.

And Elinor rose, prepared to meet her long-lost cousin, and her last best hope for the future.

It was absolutely ridiculous that he was having such a damnably hard time putting Miss Elinor Harriman out of his mind, Rohan thought as he surveyed the decorations. The two-week celebration was usually the high point of the year, and his servants had been preparing for months. The curtains in the ballroom were hung with black, every bedroom and in fact, every flat surface, had been gone over, prepared for unparalleled lechery. Food was spilling from the kitchens, excitement was building, and a ceremony of induction had been meticulously planned. The members of the Heavenly Host were, in a fact, a relatively small, select number, but there had been a spate of recent requests to join them, and Rohan had been considering them. In particular, one name stood out, and he was more than mildly interested in how the gentleman in question would comport himself.

The newcomers were usually a greedy lot, unable to comprehend that everything was available for their pleasure. Do what thou wilt. Eat and drink and gamble with no limit. Partake of the pleasures of the flesh with any and all who were willing, and no variation was forbidden. He had one room devoted to the giving and receiving of pain, others for dedicated play. One of the most popular was the chapel, where the members could mock the notion of the devil and the strictures of the church. He’d outgrown the silliness of spitting in the eye of God, but other, more devout souls found it the epitome of titillation.

In fact, he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking forward to this time around. Pain had lost its appeal, costumes felt forced, and in truth, he could think of no one he wanted, no female who stirred his blood. He leaned back, lazily considering whether he had reached a point where those of his own sex held any allure, but after a moment he dismissed the notion reluctantly. He had no rules, and he could care less where his sexual drives took him. He only regretted that right now they were taking him nowhere but to a tumbledown house in Rue du Pélican.

Reading would tell him his mind was disordered. And in fact, he did so, almost nightly, when he accompanied Rohan home from a rout or a card party or some less savory entertainment.

Because, for some quixotic reason, his coach ride home invariably included a trip past the dark streets that housed the Harriman family.

Reading had the good sense not to ask him why he ordered his coachman to take that particular route, and Rohan didn’t volunteer any reason. He knew full well that Reading was pining for the sister, poor fool, and refusing to admit it, and Rohan was perfectly happy to be assured that the wretched little household was safe for the night.

Every night Rohan told himself that this would be the last time. If he was concerned, which he would deny to his last breath, he could always send a servant to check on her. She’d already made two champions—Willis had reported that there was an underfootman who was now devoted to her, and Willis was probably smitten as well. God knows Mrs. Clarke was going to have his ears if he hurt her. Strange how everyone was drawn to such a plain, difficult woman, but maybe that would make things easier for him. He could simply charge them all with the task of making certain she and her family were well and forget about her himself.

Indeed, that was exactly what he would do. No more trips out of his way. He would head directly home from wherever he chose to spend his evenings, and rely on a servant to keep him informed. Perhaps then he could stop thinking about her and concentrate on the Revels.

There would be new guests, freshly arrived from England and the rest of the continent. There would be proper aristocratic wives who finally discovered their husbands weren’t meeting their needs, lower-class women of limited experience looking for a protector and the more comfortable way of life an alliance with the Host could bring. Fresh blood was always invigorating, and while he was looking forward to the approaching festivities with mild irritation and a great deal of boredom, who knows who might appear to distract him? Someone else equally…inspiring…would most likely appear.

This plain woman had done nothing but distract him, irritate him, unwillingly enchant him since she’d appeared in the anteroom at the château, and if he had to choose between his unwanted obsession with her and boredom, he’d gladly choose ennui. After all, he was used to it.

He leaned forward in his chair, reaching for a glass of claret, and paused for a moment to admire the Mechlin lace that graced his strong wrist. He had a ridiculous fondness for his wardrobe, and the new cuffs had been particularly fine. At least she hadn’t been around to destroy his clothes recently. And he wondered what Elinor Harriman would look like, stretched naked on his bed, wrapped in nothing but delicate white lace.

He drained the glass of wine and set it down carefully, resisting the impulse to fling it across the room. Much as he wanted to shatter something, break something, it would simply be more proof of how disordered his mind and his desires had become. Marianne would be in attendance this week, and after the last interruption at his château, he realized it had been quite some time since he’d been able to fully enjoy her. Surely she’d manage to distract him for a few good hours. She was an expert, graceful, practiced, intuitive as to what he did and didn’t like.

So why was he suddenly desiring awkwardness? He should be concentrating on other, more important things. Like who had shot him? Was it his so-dear French heir, the disgruntled Etienne? Or someone else he’d managed to offend during his long, wicked life?

As Etienne had said, one had only to meet him in order to want to kill him, though he did think that was a trifle harsh. There were any number of his acquaintances who would gladly sell their souls for him. Unfortunately he had no belief in the existence of any force willing to buy those souls.

At least there had been no more attempts on his life. Perhaps that had simply been a stray bullet, a random event. And perhaps he’d forget all about Elinor Harriman. Whether he believed in any kind of god, there was always the possibility of miracles.

The new Baron Tolliver was a handsome man. Despite the fact that he had the unmistakable Harriman Nose, it fit far better in a masculine face, Elinor decided. He had bright blue eyes, a full-lipped mouth, a strong body just above-average height and a pleasant smile.

“Miss Harriman,” he’d said, coming up to her and taking her hand. “I’m devastated that I was out of town when you sought to meet with me. Mr. Mitchum should have gotten word to me and I would have returned to Paris immediately.”

His gloved hand was firm and reassuring, and she blinked, momentarily distracted. “There was no need, my lord,” she lied. “I was simply hoping to discuss—”

“Oh, my dear cousin, and I hope I may call you cousin. And please, you must call me Marcus. We are, after all, distantly related.”

Elinor blinked, not expecting such forceful graciousness, and then she pulled herself together. Perhaps because of The Nose, he looked very much like her father, dispelling her distant hope that he might be an interloper. Not that that would have been to her advantage—the estate would presumably have gone on to an even more remote relative, or returned to the Crown.

“Cousin Marcus,” she said, sinking back into her chair. “You’re very gracious. Please sit, sir. May I offer you tea? Perhaps something to eat?”

“You are more than kind,” he said, taking the seat opposite her with a flourish of his elegant coat. “Tea would be delightful. I am so pleased to see you living in such obvious comfort. I confess that when I reached the neighborhood I was sorely distressed that my cousins should have fallen upon such poverty, but I am relieved to see that things are not so dire. Tell me how I may assist you, cousin, and I will endeavor to do so.”

He had a warm, confiding smile, and she told herself to breathe a sigh of relief. “Mr. Mitchum mentioned that there was a small legacy left to me. I’m afraid our current circumstances aren’t as comfortable as they might appear—we are living on the charity of a wealthy benefactor, and that help might disappear. I would prefer not to have to rely on others for our well-being, and I wondered what the nature of the legacy might be.” She chose her words carefully, determined not to sound greedy.

She hadn’t been careful enough. “Wealthy benefactor?” he said, frowning. “And who might that be?”

The King of Hell. The most profligate man in France and probably England as well, the Lord of the Heavenly Host. If she told him the truth, her cousin would walk away in disgust and horror.

“He prefers to remain anonymous,” she said. Astonishing how easy it was to lie when it was necessary. In truth, Viscount Rohan probably did prefer that people didn’t know he was supplying them with both the necessities and the elegancies of life and so far had sought nothing in return. Their knowing would destroy his ruthless, soulless reputation.

“Ah,” said the newly minted baron. “I wish I could thank him myself for his kindness to my kinswomen. And may I ask where the rest of your family is? My lawyers inform me that your mother still lives, though she is quite ill.”

“Not for much longer. She’s not conscious, but extremely agitated, and it might be for the best if you didn’t see her.”

“Nonsense,” he said, having acquired a lordly manner in very little time. “I must pay my respects to the former baroness.” He rose, and Elinor rose as well, inwardly cursing him. She could throw herself in front of him in an effort to stall him, but in the end it would do her no good. So she simply nodded.

“Of course,” she said, resigned. “This way.”

It was scarcely a long walk in their cluttered little house, made worse by the comfortable furniture Lord Rohan had sent them. Her cousin made a muffled groan when he accidentally rammed his hip against the sideboard that held the exquisite glassware that had arrived four days ago. She moved ahead of him and pushed open the door of the sickroom, bracing herself.

They’d taken the restraints off Lady Caroline over a week ago, as her state of malaise seemed to deepen. Nanny Maude would coax a little chicken broth down her throat, and every now and then Caroline opened her eyes. Nanny was perched in the comfortable chair beside the bed, the chair thanks to Lord Rohan, as well as the warm, rich blankets that covered her mother’s frail form.

“Nanny Maude, this is our cousin, the new Lord Tolliver. Cousin Marcus, this is Nanny Maude, who’s been with us all our lives and takes excellent care of us.”

Nanny rose painfully, her dark eyes narrowed as she assessed the newcomer. “Good afternoon, my lord,” she said, managing a sketch of a curtsy. To the casual observer it was all right and proper, but Elinor had the strange sense that something wasn’t right. Nanny was staring at him with an odd expression on her face.

He gave her a polite nod and moved to stand over Lady Caroline. To Elinor’s amazement, her mother opened her eyes, focusing on the man in her room.

“Who are you?” she demanded in a voice that was little more than a croak. They were her first lucid words in more than a week.

“Your late husband’s heir, Lady Caroline,” he said pleasantly. “Marcus Harriman.”

“Marcus, eh?” She struggled to sit up, and Nanny quickly moved to her side, trying to calm her, but the glint of madness was back in her eyes. “Come here. Closer.”

“Don’t,” Elinor muttered, uneasy.

“You’re being absurd, Cousin Elinor. She’s hardly in any shape to hurt me.” He moved next to the bed. “Is there any way I can assist you, Lady Caroline?”

“Closer,” she said.

He leaned over her, taking one clawlike hand in his, and before Elinor could cry out, her mother managed to pull him off balance, so that he tumbled onto the bed with her, and one of her gnarled hands clawed at the front of his breeches as she began to curse and shout, terrible, filthy words, animal words.

Marcus scrambled to his feet, horrified, and Elinor took his arm, pulling him from the room. “She’s not well,” she said helplessly.

He was bleeding—she’d managed to scratch his face, and as Elinor shut the door firmly behind them she could still hear her mother’s screams, followed by Nanny’s soothing words. She half expected him to brush off her offer of assistance, to storm from the house in disgust, but he simply looked at her with pity.

“You poor girl.”

It was almost enough to make her weep. Almost. She’d shown that weakness only once in her memory, in front of the worst possible person. She wasn’t going to succumb to it again.

“We manage,” she said briskly. “The doctor says she hasn’t long left, and these bouts of excitation simply mean the end is coming closer. Nanny Maude is wonderful with her, and Lydia and I are fine on our own.”

“And your own father left you nothing? Unconscionable!”

She managed a wry smile. “Indeed, you’d know more about that than I do, sir. I gather the entire estate was entailed and there was nothing set aside for his children.”

Cousin Marcus looked faintly uncomfortable. “In point of fact, I don’t believe your sister actually is…”

“My sister was born in wedlock to my mother and father, and by rule of law she’s a legitimate offspring,” Elinor said shortly, her temper getting the better of her.

“You know your law well. You’re an educated woman. I wonder at that, given your ramshackle upbringing.”

He meant no disrespect, she reminded herself, even as she resisted the temptation to snap back. “I like to read,” she said stiffly.

“And you’re an intelligent woman. You cannot believe how admirable that is, in this day and age of silly young misses. I would much prefer the companionship of an older, plainer woman of sense than a pretty, shallow young thing.”

She just barely managed a smile. “Too kind,” she said through her teeth. “I’m afraid Nanny’s too busy right now to make us tea.” The screams were muffled but ongoing, and Cousin Marcus had a labored expression.

“This is clearly a difficult time. I’ll return when things are more settled…” He was already edging toward the door.

“But you haven’t told me of my father’s bequest. And your face is bleeding—at least let me see to your wounds before you go out in public,” she protested.

“We can discuss this all at a later date,” he said, dabbing at his face with a lacy handkerchief. “As Mr. Mitchum told you, it’s only a token, but I wish to do your father’s bidding as best as I can.” He didn’t wait for Jacobs to reappear and open the door—he was already halfway out it. “Adieu, dear lady.”

She watched him go. He walked well—he wore boots instead of the elegant shoes that Rohan favored, and if he had the trace of a swagger he was doubtless justified. He was a peer of the realm, a strong, handsome man in the prime of life. He had every reason to strut.

She closed the door behind him. Her mother’s screams had finally quieted now that Cousin Marcus had left, and she moved quietly to Caroline’s bedroom, opening the door a crack.

Her mother had slipped back into a drugged sleep. “Shouldn’t we tie her to the bed again?” she whispered to Nanny Maude.

The old lady had a troubled expression on her face. “No need,” Nanny said. “These fits are followed by bouts of sleep. She won’t move or speak for days. Who was that gentleman again?” She changed subjects abruptly.

“I introduced you. He’s our cousin, Marcus Harriman.”

“I don’t remember any Marcus, and I lived on that estate for the first fifty years of my life.”

“He’s distant kin. The closest they could come up with, but I’m sure it’s all as it should be.”

Nanny shook her head, still not satisfied. “I didn’t think there were any other branches of the family.”

“Well, there’s no doubting he’s got the Harriman look. And if it wasn’t him, the estate would be going to someone else. At least he seems willing to meet with me.”

“Indeed,” Nanny said, not sounding happy. “Next time he comes to visit we’ll have Jacobs stay with your mama. I want to ask him a few questions.”

The thought of fierce little Nanny Maude interviewing the new Baron Tolliver was entertaining enough to lift the dark cloud that had settled around her heart. She was contriving as best she could—for now she could try to be patient.

She moved back to her seat by the fire and picked up her book. It was a collection of improving sermons by a zealot monk who’d spent time in the Americas, and whose notions concerning bathing, women and religion were extreme and uncompromising. The good brother was a proponent of the theory that women were an unpleasant necessity, and once they’d fulfilled their procreative duties they should be sent to convents to reside with other women and endure a vow of silence.

Rohan had sent it on purpose, just to annoy her, but the written word was scarce enough that she even read this wretched book, alternately cursing its giver.

And she tried not to think about Francis, Viscount Rohan or his Heavenly Host.