George stared into the middle distance. Only when he had Juliana in his hands would he be able to satisfy this all-consuming hunger. Then he would be at peace, able to reclaim his rightful inheritance. He was no longer interested in having her to wife. But he knew he would get no rest until he'd indulged this craving that gnawed at his vitals like Prometheus's vultures.

Lucien's mouth moved in a derisive, flickering smile. He could read the man's thoughts as if they were spelled out. Slobbering, incontinent bumpkin . . . couldn't wait to possess that repellently voluptuous body. "I think we should attempt the legitimate route first," he said solemnly, enjoying the clear disappointment in his companion's fallen face. "Lay a charge against her with the support of her guardians. If that doesn't work, then . . ." He shrugged. "We'll see."

George traced a dark, rusty stain in the table's planking with a splayed fingertip. Red wine or blood, it could be either in this place. The realization entered his befuddled brain that if Juliana was in prison, guards could be bribed. He could have her to himself for as long as it would take. Either plan would give him the opportunity he craved.

He looked up and nodded. "I'll go back to Hampshire in the morning. Lay the matter before the Forsetts. Where will I find you, my lord?"

Lucien scowled, remembering anew that he was now condemned to lodge under his own besieged and uncomfortable roof. "My house is on Mount Street, but here's as good a place as any other. Leave a message with Gideon." He gestured with his head toward the man filling pitchers of ale at the bar counter before taking up his glass again, partially turning his shoulder to George in a gesture that the other man correctly interpreted as dismissal.

George pushed back his chair and stood up. He hesitated over words of farewell. It seemed too inconclusive simply to walk away, but there was no encouragement from the viscount. "I bid you good night, sir," he said finally, receiving not so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. He walked away, intending to return to his previous bench, but he was filled with a restless energy, a surge of elation at the thought that he was no longer alone in his quest. He went outside instead. A slatternly young woman approached him with a near toothless smile.

"Half a guinea, honorable sir?" She thrust her bosom at him, her black eyes snapping.

"Five shillings," he returned.

She shrugged, took his hand, and led him off to the bulks beneath the market holders' stalls. For five shillings, it wasn't worth taking him to her room on King Street, where she'd have to pay for candles and probably change the linen.

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"The Bedford Head on Wednesday forenoon. "

The word flew around the houses of Covent Garden, dropping in the ears of languid women gathered in parlors in the morning's dishabille, idly comparing notes of their previous night's labors, sipping coffee, discussing fashions in the latest periodicals. The word was brought by women from Mistress Dennison's establishment. It was whispered to heads bent in an attentive circle and received with hushed curiosity. The words sisterhood and solidarity were spoken on tongues stumbling over the unfamiliar concepts. And the Russell Street women went on to the next house, leaving the seed to germinate, with Lucy's former plight as fertilizer.

Mistress Mitchell of the Bedford Head had listened to Lilly's explanation that a group of Covent Garden cyprians wished to have a small party to celebrate a birthday. She was asked to provide refreshments, and Lilly didn't bat an eyelid at Mistress Mitchell's exorbitant price for such simple fare as coffee, chocolate, and sweet biscuits. She tripped out of the Bedford Head with a cheerful smile, leaving Mistress Mitchell in frowning thought.

Why would the women wish to rent private space for a party when any one of them could have entertained the others under her own bawd's roof? There wasn't a High Impure in the Garden whose abbess would refuse permission for such an event.

Mistress Mitchell went on her own rounds, consulting her fellow abbesses. None could come up with an explanation. It was decided that Mistress Mitchell would position herself at the peephole to the back room on Wednesday forenoon. With the aid of a glass against the wall, she would be able to hear the women's conversation.

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While she was sitting with Lucy, Juliana received a message from Lilly that the meeting was arranged for Wednesday forenoon. Lucy was sufficiently strong now to leave her bed and was ensconced on the chaise longue beneath the window. Juliana read the note, which contained a variety of messages for Lucy from Russell Street, and then handed it to her companion.

Lucy looked up from the letter. "What is this meeting, Juliana?"

Juliana explained. "It's time we did something," she finished with her usual vehemence. "These people make their living out of us, why should they get away with treating us as badly as they please?"

Lucy looked puzzled. "But not you, Juliana. You're not involved at all. Who's making their living out of you?"

"The duke paid Mistress Dennison three thousand guineas for me," Juliana responded succinctly. "I was bought and sold like a slave, simply because I had no protection, no money of my own, no friends, and nowhere to turn. If the Sisterhood had existed then, I would have had somewhere to go. A few guineas would have made all the difference. And think what it would have done for you."

Lucy leaned back, the letter lying open in her lap. "I don't think you understand the power of the whoremasters and bawds, Juliana."

"I understand it as well as I wish to," Juliana retorted. "And I know that it's that defeatist attitude, Lucy, that gives them the power that they have." She turned at a knock on the door, calling "Come in" before recollecting that it was Lucy's bedchamber not her own.

Tarquin entered the room. Lucy, who'd seen her host only the once when she'd been brought into the house, struggled to stand up.

"Don't disturb yourself," Tarquin said, coming over to the chaise longue. "I wished to find out how you were feeling."

"Oh, much better, Your Grace," Lucy stammered, flushing as she adjusted her wrapper. "I . . . I'm sure I'll be able to leave in the morning if-"

"There's no need for that." He bent to pick up the letter that had fluttered to the floor from Lucy's lap. "You're very welcome under my roof until Henny considers you fit to leave." He handed her back the letter, and Juliana couldn't tell whether he'd seen the contents or not. He hadn't seemed to glance at it, but one could never tell with Tarquin. His eyes were everywhere even when he seemed at his most unconcerned.

He took a pinch of snuff and glanced around the room. "I trust you're quite comfortable, ma'am."

Lucy's flush deepened at both the question and the courtesy title. "Oh, yes, indeed. Your Grace. I can't express my gratitude enough for your kindness. I'm sure I don't deserve such-"

"Of course you do!" Juliana interrupted fiercely. "You are as deserving of kindness and consideration as any other human being. Isn't that so, my lord duke?" Her eyes hurled the challenge at him.

"Oh, Juliana, you mustn't say such things," Lucy protested faintly. "Indeed, I don't wish to be a nuisance."

"You aren't being. Is she, sir?"

Tarquin shook his head with a wry quirk of amusement but refused to be drawn. He pushed himself off the windowsill and tipped her chin, lightly kissing her mouth. "When you've completed your visit with Lucy, come and see me in my book room."

Juliana, thrown off course by the kiss, glanced at Lucy, who was studiously rereading her letter. Lucy, of course, wouldn't think twice about a gentleman's playful dalliance with his mistress.