SUMMER STOOD AT THE TOP OF THE LANDING WEARING a Worth gown that cost a small fortune, but one that brought out the golden highlights in her hair and eyes, emphasized her tiny waist, and made her bosom look two sizes larger. Gauzy white fabric draped her shoulders and cascaded down her arms, softening the planes of her face and the muscles in her arms. Ringlet curls framed her cheeks and lay down the sides of her topknot. She looked ready; she knew she did. Why then couldn't she take that first step down the stairs?

   Maria gave her a swat on the back of her enormous bustle. "Go on," she urged. "I can't wait to see Byron's face when he sees ya'."

   "His Grace," snapped Summer with enough irrita tion that she forgot how nervous she felt. "Would you stop calling him by his first name?"

   "Soon as ya' do, so will I."

   "Tarnation!"

   "You might as well come down now," commanded that deep male voice from the bottom of the landing. "I heard you, and I know you're up there."

   "See what you did," whispered Summer as she started down the stairs.

   "Well, ya'd have to go down sometime," answered Maria as she absentmindedly patted India's little head from where he perched on her shoulder.

   Summer had reached the third-to-last stair. "But only when I felt good and ready."

   And then she saw him, and he her, and time froze. He looked stunning, thought Summer, in his black coat and tails, with his snowy white linen ruffled shirt and matching cravat. A huge blue pin anchored his neck cloth, the hue of the stone exactly matching the color of his eyes. A black top hat held his blond hair back from his face, outlining the hard ridges of his jaw and the highness of his cheekbones. She shivered in her new gown.

   Maria spread her hands at Summer with a flourish. "What do ya' think, Yore Grace?"

   The Duke of Monchester opened his mouth, then closed it again.

   "Stunned speechless," she whispered into Summer's ear. "If'n yore heart weren't so set on that Monte fellow, I'd swear you could have yoreself a duke."

   Summer flowed down the last three steps and held out her lace-gloved hand. Without a word the duke took it and led her to the door, his eyes never leaving her face. A tingle ran through her hand and up her arm, and heat blossomed where it certainly shouldn't for a man who wasn't her intended.

   Summer's feet planted themselves in sudden alarm. "Maria," she gasped. "Come along."

   Her friend shrugged her shoulders, all the dangling red beads on the purple gown she wore clicking with the movement. She patted her black coiffure, pushing a few beaded hairpins back into place. "I know I'll be bored to tears among all them snooty men and women," she grumbled as she patted India good-bye and fetched her wrap. "Give me the kitchen any day, with a snort of brew and a handsome footman."

   Something in her voice made Summer break her gaze away from His Grace and turn to her friend with a frown of concern. "Maria, we're like sisters. Anything that I have, you can too."

   "No, I can't," she answered, green eyes shadowed with that secret sorrow that Summer had noticed often in the years since they'd become friends as young girls, but which Maria never would share with her.

   "Why not? You know my money is yours as well."

   Maria glanced from the duke back to her. "It ain't the money… Oh, don't worry none about me. I'll just keep my mouth shut and be a proper escort for ya'." And with that said she walked out the door in a swirl of purple and yellow skirts.

   His Grace settled Summer's wrap around her shoul ders, his fingertips lightly grazing her skin, making her forget anything but his presence as he ushered her out the door and into the waiting brougham. She sat across from Maria, and at first felt grateful that the duke didn't sit beside her friend, that she wouldn't have to try to face the charismatic lure of his gaze. But when he sat next to her, he was so close she could feel the heat of his body, infinitely more titillating than the touch of his hand, and tarnation, she could smell him. Some rapturous scent of spice and human male.

   She groaned.

   "You'll be fine," he assured her, misinterpreting her discomfort for dread of the upcoming event.

   "I'll never remember everything," she replied, not wanting to let him know the real direction of her thoughts. Then as soon as she said it, she panicked, her heart pounding so hard she could see her near naked bosom vibrate with the force of it. Her mind had gone completely blank! Was she allowed to speak to anyone without an introduction first? Did a gentleman introduce himself to her, or could she say something to him? Could she walk alone if she was going to the water closet? Unaware that she spoke the words aloud, she began to recite from one of the etiquette books she'd tried to memorize. "A good manner is the best letter of recommendation among strangers. Civility, refinement, and gentleness are passports to—"

   "You're never going to make it," interrupted the duke.

   Maria watched the two of them with a wicked grin on her face.

   Summer glared at him. "What? What! What do you mean I won't make it? If I can learn to run up a mountain, wrestle with a knife, and shoot like a—"

   "You're falling apart. Bloody hell, what did those knickerbockers do to make you this anxious over a trifling ball?"

   "Anxious? I'll have you know that I have nerves of steel. Why, one time back in Tombstone I—"

   He took her hand. The warmth of that contact flowed all the way to her toes, which made her even more confused and nervous. He sighed.

   "Your gown is quite nice. You almost do it justice."

   The litany of etiquette that still spun through Summer's jangled brain came to a screeching halt. She turned to face his handsome profile. "What?"

   "Don't misunderstand me. Worth did a superb job of adorning you. However, one can't expect miracles, now, can one?"

   Every muscle in Summer's body had stilled. "What do you mean by a miracle?"

   The corner of his lip twitched, but he continued to stare rigidly ahead. "One can't expect you to magically transform into a proper Englishwoman, that's all."

   Maria choked on a laugh and quickly turned to look out the window.

   Summer lazily wiggled her foot, feeling the comfortable pressure of her sheathed knife wrapped around her calf. How dare he? She didn't want to turn into a proper Englishwoman; she just wanted to be a lady so that she'd be accepted by society and allowed to marry Monte. And what did Maria think was so funny, anyway? Her friend continued to be a silent chaperone, which was very uncharacteristic of her.

   She glared at Maria and then back at the duke. Who cared what His High-and-Mighty thought about American women anyway? Women who could take care of themselves, shoot and cook their own dinner… women who didn't need the protection of any man? That's probably his problem, that she didn't swoon at his feet and need coddling like some piece of glass that could shatter at any moment. She continued to grumble to herself about the gorgeous, annoying man sitting next to her.

"Miss Lee?"

"What?"

   "We have arrived. Allow me to escort you out of the carriage."

   With a start Summer realized that they had stopped, that His Grace stood outside the open door, his white-gloved hand held out to her. She could just see the elegant house behind him, with lights ablaze and a red carpeted walkway leading to the cavernous doors. Throngs of poor folk, held in check by uniformed officers, crowded the streets to catch a glimpse of the guests in their finery. As she descended from the carriage she caught sight of a woman in plain brown clothes, her eyes dreamy with delight at all the elegantly dressed ladies as they walked up the steps into the four-story mansion.

   Couldn't the woman tell that Summer was just like her? That she was a country girl dressed up and masquerading as a lady? They'd find her out tonight, just like they did in New York. She'd be exposed as a person not fit to wipe their boots. Dadburn it, she couldn't breathe again! And her legs were shaking beneath her ridiculous dress.

   Maria alighted from the carriage and glanced around, looking as if this were all some grand joke. Didn't she realize this was serious? Summer wondered, annoyed as Maria gave saucy winks to any man she thought worthy of them.

   Summer clutched at the duke's arm, and he glanced down at her, sighing again. "I suppose you'll want to know about my stepmother and the rest of my family you'll be meeting."

   She looked at him in surprise. He always refused to answer any of her personal questions, or ask her anything about her own past. They had a strictly business relationship. This sudden capitulation stunned her enough that her knees stopped their shaking and she resumed her normal, graceful walk.

   "My stepmother, the Dowager Duchess of Monchester—that's Her Grace, to you—currently resides in this elegant home in Mayfair along with my half brother, the First Marquis Karlton and his American wife, the Marchioness of Karlton. You will address them as Lord and Lady Karlton."

   They had entered the entry hall of the mansion he called a house, with its gaslights and candles and flowers all reminiscent of Mrs. Astor's New York mansion. A touch of panic started to curl up Summer's insides again, and she blurted the first thought in her head. "But I thought your family had no money."

   "Again, the rudeness of your comments. Remember, madam, just keep your mouth shut and you will do stunningly this evening."

   Summer narrowed her eyes but didn't give up. "But why did you agree to sponsor me if you're not poor?"

   "It goes without saying that just because I am sadly lacking in funds, it's no reason my stepfamily need be so."

   "Huh?"

   Evidently, they had been in a receiving line, for suddenly the duke was introducing her and Maria to a very tall, stately woman: the dowager duchess. She smiled at Summer rather condescendingly but nodded at her with regal acceptance. Maria she ignored entirely, sticking her nose in the air after scanning the girl's gown with distaste. Summer sighed, wishing again that her friend would stop insisting on designing her own wardrobe, but Maria stubbornly allowed that she'd be herself, and blast anyone who didn't like it.

   Then Byron introduced them to a rather smallish man, whose own brownish gold hair had thinned into a few strands across the top of his head, and she remembered to bow and call him Lord Karlton to his leering face. When they approached his wife, his American wife, thought Summer with relief, she expected a warmer greeting. After all, weren't they from the same country?

   "Brother dear," said Lady Karlton, "what sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?" She nodded with disdain at Summer and Maria.

   "Certainly not the same sort that my brother managed to get into," he replied.

   She laughed flirtatiously and eyed him with a lustful gaze that Summer thought surely wasn't appropriate for a sister-in-law. "You had your chance, Monchester, at a real lady. Whatever are you doing with these bumpkins?"

   Byron's face froze into that superiorly scornful mask. "Summer's father is a friend of mine, and I promised to take care of her while she's in London. Careful, sister dear, there are a few amusing stories of your own American background that I haven't quite gotten around to sharing with His Highness yet. Perhaps tonight would be a fortuitous time."

   Lady Karlton's black eyes glittered. "You'd never disgrace the family, I'm sure." She leaned forward and breathed out her next sentence into his face. "Do you really think the prince will attend tonight? Please say you've put in a good word for us."

   "My family loyalty bids me to do so, as always. But you know he goes where a whim takes him."

   Lady Karlton straightened up to her full height and took a half step forward, and Summer realized how exceedingly tall she was, unaware that the lady had been slouching as she talked to Byron. She looked down her nose at her stepbrother-in-law, who had to either tilt his head back to look up at her or speak to her tiny bosom. With a scornful grimace, he chose the latter.

   "If you will excuse us, sister dear, I believe the Grand March is about to begin." And he took Summer's arm and lined up behind another couple, the orchestra beginning a solemn tune that had them soon following the procession around the ballroom, while Maria settled into a comfortable chair and watched them with a calculating eye.

   Summer hugged the duke's arm, amazed that she felt so protected by his nearness and grateful that she'd hired him. She marveled that his family hadn't ignored her, and the thread of panic that had nipped at her heels all night faded away as she took her full first breath since leaving the coach. Her feet slid along the parquet floors as if they had been buttered; she breathed in the mingled scents of perfume and felt, for the first time, as if she might actually belong among these richly clad lords and ladies.

   She leaned toward the duke, noticing the stares that kept drifting in their direction, and although that brief encounter with his family sent a million questions tumbling through her head, she asked again the last one he hadn't answered. "Why did you agree to help me if your family ain't—aren't poor?"

   His chin lifted a bit higher, holding back a golden curl that had threatened to tumble over his forehead since he'd removed his hat. "Do you see everyone staring at us? Speculating with excitement about my partner?"

   Summer nodded.

   "You, my dear, still look every bit of an American. No proper Englishwoman would have a sprinkle of freckles across her nose."

   Summer knew Monte loved her freckles. He'd kissed every one of them. And why did this man have to notice every little detail about her? "So, I'm American. Including your stepsister, I'm sure there are several here."

   "Aah, yes. But not with me. My… repugnance of the American title-hunter is well known, much to the relief of several English heiresses. Therefore, my partnership with you has shocked many of this company, as well as my family. It seems that what one brother did, they fear the other will do as well."

   "So your brother married for money? And that's why they aren't poor?"

   "Partly."

   The procession had ended and the first strains of a minuet de la cour, a French version of the waltz, Summer had learned, began to float through the cavernous room. The duke faced her, placed his right arm firmly around her waist, yet properly not holding her too close. His left hand took her right, and he spun her across the floor.

   Summer resisted the urge to lead, something she always tried to do, much to her teacher's dismay, and let herself be swept up in the glory of the dance. The duke had refused to give her dancing lessons, had hired someone else instead, so this was the first time they'd held each other in their arms. He was the perfect height for her; she didn't have to crane her neck or lift her hands too high, and he moved beautifully, with a grace that almost matched her own.

   "So why doesn't your family help you with your situation?"

   He sighed, his breath caressing her ear and causing her to give an involuntary shiver of delight. "You are persistent, aren't you?"

   "Pa says I'm a champion nagger."

   He laughed, caught himself, and then chuckled again. Summer noticed a few startled glances cast their way. "Very well, then, champion. The property entailed to me consisted of two run-down castles, the lands not earning enough to keep the servants, much less the income to the dowager duchess that I'm entitled to provide her. The income, investments, and other land that was unentailed was all left to my stepbrother—after my father had bled the two estates dry to obtain it."

   Summer's head whirled. "Why would your pa do such a thing?"

   She felt him stiffen in her arms. "If I knew the answer to that, madam, I would be content with my lot."

   "I'm sorry."

   "Don't be. There are many of the nobility who are in the same position as I am, saddled with estates that are no longer self-supporting. That's why there's such a ripe marriage market for American heiresses."

   "I told you, I don't want to marry any snooty—"

   His mouth and arms tightened, and he spun her in quick succession about the room, certainly too fast to match the slow strain of the music. Summer clutched at him to keep herself from falling down with dizziness, and her chest thudded against his, the softness of his cravat sweeping the top of her breasts, the warmth of his chest penetrating through the thickness of her corset. A distant part of her mind told her they were dancing too close for propriety's sake and wondered at what kind of wanton woman she could be that she responded to the slightest touch of his body. She clung to him and half opened her mouth, staring at his own and feeling a pull toward it that was an undeniable physical craving.

   The duke stumbled. He'd only meant to teach her a lesson, that he was just as desirable as any American man, but when her eyes turned glassy he couldn't tear his own away, as if she had cast some magic spell over him. And when her lips opened, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to tilt his head and taste them, to want to nip at her full bottom lip. Thank heaven that his sister-in-law's brittle laugh was loud enough to break the spell and bring him to his senses. He'd nearly destroyed his reputation! Kissing a title-hunter. In public, no less!

   Summer's eyes widened, and she pulled back in confusion when he sneered at her. "Not so hard to imagine yourself married to an Englishman, I gather?"

   "You did that on purpose!"

   He swept her to the edge of the dance floor. "Certainly, madam. Just as I purposely baited you on the way here."

   Summer frowned, taken aback by his remark. This man played so many games, she had trouble keeping up with him. What a challenge! "And why did you want to make me angry in the carriage?"

   "You hired me to make you acceptable in society. Having a breakdown before we get to a ball will not produce the results you paid me for."

   Summer grinned. He was right! She'd been so angry at him that she'd forgotten all about her nervousness. And when they'd been in that receiving line, he'd actually offered her personal information about himself that had again distracted her. Why did he have such a reputation for callousness? He seemed an exceptionally considerate man. She didn't pay him to comfort her, regardless of what he said.

   The music ended as he led her off the dance floor. She stepped lightly and grinned at him. "Thank you."

   He raised a brow and shrugged, trying to ignore that kernel of feeling that grew in his chest as he gazed at her glowing face, the sparkle in those rich brown eyes.

   "But that other thing you did…" Her grin had turned upside down. "You don't have to prove to me that Englishmen are every bit as desirable as American men; it doesn't matter what country anyone is from. It's just that I'm already spoken for, and he happens to be an American. And I don't care about titles."

   The duke stared at her a moment, shocked that he almost believed her. He turned and muttered something about bringing her a glass of refreshment, and weaved his way through the crowd, barely acknowledging the deferential nods of his peers. The bloody woman kept being so ridiculously honest and outspoken of her thoughts, he grumbled to himself. How could he keep a professional distance from her if she kept sharing her most intimate feelings with him? He tried not to blame her, guessing enough of her background to know she hadn't been taught even the most basic rules of society, but he still needed to figure out a way to keep his distance.

   In his distraction he bumped against another man, making the red punch in the other's hand slosh over expensive kid gloves. He barely muttered an apology, still obsessed with the thoughts of his American heiress. The child didn't even realize that although he'd tried to seduce a kiss from her, he'd certainly had no intention of actually following it through. How had she managed to make him respond that way? He'd had the most skilled cour tesans, and the most innocent of marriage-hunting English ladies, offer up their lips to him and he'd always been in control.

   "I said," wavered a young man's voice, "that you owe me an apology, sir."

   The duke scowled as his eyes reluctantly focused on the red face of John Strolm. Just what he did not need tonight, bumping into the boy who thought he'd killed his intended. "I believe I already made my apology, sir."

   "If that is so, sir, I certainly didn't hear it!" The boy's voice cracked on the last word, and a rustling of petticoats as people turned to stare could be heard as silence descended throughout the room. Byron could see the boy become aware of the attention, his eyes aglitter with satisfaction as if he'd planned this little scene. Well, he probably had.

   Byron sighed. "Then allow me again, sir, to express my apologies over your soiled gloves. Although sadly out of fashion, I'm sure they were the best you had. I'd be happy to pay for their replacement."

   The duke paused, while Mr. Strolm pondered that for a moment. The boy's face turned an unbecoming shade of purple as he realized that the apology had been an insult.

   I shouldn't have done that, thought Byron, but some people just make it too easy. And then he felt her behind him, could smell that fresh-from-the-outdoors scent that she managed to maintain even in a smoky ballroom, and wished she'd stayed away. He intended to make her reputation, not ruin it, and if the foolish boy said something about the rumors that he obviously believed to be true, he could no longer dismiss them as idle gossip to be laughed off.

   The boy's chest puffed up, and his words spilled out before Byron had a chance to call him outside. "I, sir, am not afraid of your venomous tongue as those in the rest of this room are! Say what you will of my unfashionable clothes, my coarse manner—the cut of my hair, even—to His Royal Highness. What worse could you do to me than to kill my intended?"

   Gasps of horror filled the room. Byron mentally shrugged. The boy had done it now, yet still he berated himself for giving him the chance. If he hadn't been so distracted by that woman… and bloody hell, he felt her brush his backside and stole a quick glance behind him. She'd pulled her knife and had the point of it hidden up her sleeve, the grip curled inside her hand. Was she mad? Worse, did she think he needed physical protection?

   He looked up at John Strolm, and like every man in the room, the boy topped him by a couple of inches. But he'd learned in his youth how to take care of himself and felt insulted that the woman didn't think he could.

   The American would ruin any chance she had of being accepted in polite society if he didn't end this situation now, sure that she'd pounce into the fray if it came to blows. The duke felt oddly pleased at the thought, regardless of how ridiculous it seemed.

   He lifted his chin and let the superiority of his rank settle over his features. "Am I to understand, sir, that you believe I pushed the lovely Miss Carlysle out her bedroom window?"

   "I most certainly—that's not my—you know well enough that if it hadn't been for the story you told to His Royal Highness, she'd never have taken her own life!"

   "No, boy. I don't know that, and neither do you."

   The duke knew John hadn't heard a word he'd said, for his mouth kept opening and closing like a fish, and he might as well let the boy say what he wanted before Summer could intervene; he could feel her tightening up like a drawn bow behind him. He lifted a brow, folded his arms, and waited.

   The aristocracy waited with him, their faces revealing an eager delight at the delicious gossip this would cause on the morrow.

   "I'm sure whatever story you told the prince was a lie!" sputtered the boy at last.

   "Although only slightly amusing, I assure you it was the truth. I also assure you that you don't want the story told publicly, for although we all knew Miss Carlysle to have been a lovely girl, she also had a reputation for being… highly spirited as well. What caused her to leap from that window shall remain a mystery, and you should neither blame me… or yourself, for that matter. Good evening, sir."

   The duke knew he'd gotten to the heart of the matter, that the boy might be blaming himself for the deed, for as soon as he said the words, John's shoulders began to shake, and the need not to disgrace himself by bursting into tears gave Byron enough time to grasp Summer's hand and make a hasty exit from the room.

   The boy's grief made him angry, because the Carlysle girl certainly didn't deserve such devotion. The story Byron had told had been true, for he'd been there himself, and he had enough information from friends that it probably hadn't been the first time she'd pulled such a stunt.

   Someone had been alert enough to have called ahead for the coachman, for the rented brougham sat waiting at the bottom of the stairs, the door already open. Probably his stepmother making sure that he left as soon as possible. Although outwardly kind to a fault, in small ways she viewed him as an inferior, and he knew it, as if he shouldn't have the privilege to even wipe his brother's feet, much less carry the title of duke. She probably felt relieved at his confronta tion with Strolm, that it hastened his departure from her home.

   As he assisted Summer into the carriage, he realized she no longer held her knife, and hoped it wasn't left behind in somebody's back.

   "What about Maria?" she asked.

   Byron's voice vibrated with anger. "I'll send the coach back for her." He settled into the seat across from her and flicked his hair off his forehead. "Either you solemnly swear never to pull that knife again in public, or I terminate our business arrangement."

   Summer stared at him in wonder. They'd just been through a trying experience, one that he'd certainly caused by some dreadful story, and he had the nerve to reprimand her for poor behavior. That boy had been big. Didn't the man realize he didn't stand a chance in a fair fight with him? But she had to admit, if she'd had to use her knife and they saw her, she'd never be welcome in anyone else's home. Although she still felt pretty sure she could've discouraged the boy with a few nicks here and there without being seen, the duke was probably right.

   She let out a long sigh as the carriage bounced over the cobblestones. "I swear I won't use my knife in public, if you tell me what that girl did."

   He might not have answered, but she'd spoken as if she believed him, when others obviously didn't. He stopped scowling at her. "It happened several months ago, at a house party thrown by one of your American heiresses—"

   "They're not my—"

   "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

   Her perfect little teeth clamped together with an audible snap, and he nodded with satisfaction. "Lord Churchill and his American wife, Jennie, had rented a summer house, and perhaps because of this, the room assignments hadn't been properly… arranged."

   Summer nodded, a bit bewildered. But she recog nized the gleam in his eye and knew that he was hoping to shock her. She fought a grin and pretended to understand.

   He wasn't fooled, and he seemed to take great satisfaction in explaining further. "In polite society, if a woman is married, and the match is not quite to her satisfaction, well, once she gives birth to an heir and a spare, it's quite acceptable for her to take a lover."

   Summer nodded.

   "Or lovers. As in, more than one."

   She nodded again. Maria had already told her all this; when would he stop repeating himself and get on with the story?

   He must've seen the frustration in her face, sighed with disappointment, and continued. "Somehow the room cards had gotten switched on a few doors, and in the middle of the night, I heard a loud thump and squeal from the room next to mine. Ordinarily I would have ignored it, of course, but the squeal didn't sound like a happy one, and I thought as a gentleman I should at least try to investigate."

"Good for you."

   Byron shook his head. She sounded sincere. The child didn't recognize sarcasm when she heard it. He'd opened his mouth to continue when the carriage made a sharp turn and slapped him up against the window. He frowned, something niggling at the back of his mind, but the jostle hadn't bothered Summer. She continued to watch him with eager fascination, and he couldn't refuse that look of entreaty for long.

   "The door stood half open, and on the floor"—he choked on a laugh, but refused to give in to it—"lay old Lord Roster, naked and wrinkled as a pig's skin, with Miss Carlysle perched atop him, equally naked, mind you, covered in mounds of white cream, with a pack of his house dogs gleefully wagging their tails as they licked up the cream from whatever part of the couple's bodies they could reach. She screamed at me to help her"—this time he coughed on the choke before he could continue—"because she'd thought it was my room, you see, and there'd be no cream left for us if I didn't call the dogs off." He had to cough again.

   "I don't see what's so funny."

   "Don't you? She wasn't worried about being found in a compromising situation—she was worried about the cream!"

   Summer nodded, but she still missed the humor of it. "But why would she kill herself over something like that?"

   "I don't believe she did. I believe she was just a bit unbalanced. Still, married women, madam, are allowed their indiscretions. Young, single maidens are either trying to trap a man into marriage, or excessively loose. Either way, it doomed her reputation. And as it took me and several servants to haul those dogs off her, the story would eventually have spread to His Highness anyway."

   The carriage gave another jolt, this time flinging Summer from her seat and into his lap. For a moment the warmth of her, the silky feel of her hair across his cheek, the summertime flowery smell of her, overwhelmed his senses so that his mind went blank, and all he could do was gather her up and cradle her in his arms and just experience the sheer delight of it.

   "Let me go," she whispered, her mind muddled by the feel of his strong arms about her. She had to remind herself of her engagement, that she owed loyalty to another man, not this one.

   The carriage had come to a full stop, bringing Byron to his senses, that niggling in his mind turning into real concern as he glanced out the window. The cheerful gleam of city gaslights had been replaced by the fog-shrouded light of the moon, its weak glow outlining broken-down buildings constructed of scrap wood and tarpaper instead of neatly tailored mansions. Why had the coachman driven through this part of London? There'd be no reason to bring them through the East End…

   The carriage door flew open. "Just take it easy, guvnor," said the coachman, only his livery recogniz able to Byron, for the man wearing it had a voice and face he'd never seen before. "You and the lady, step from the coach nice and easy, hear? Then maybe nobody gets hurt."