"I would never have credited her with so much sense," Amelia murmured.

"Madam, she murdered her husband . . . my father." George slammed his empty tankard onto a table.

"Not so hot, sir . . . not so hot," Sir Brian advised. "There's no need for a show of temper."

"But I will have her brought to justice, I tell you."

"By all means, you must do what seems best to you," Sir Brian said calmly. "I wouldn't stand in your way, my dear sir."

George looked nonplussed. "But if she refuses to acknowledge her identity, and she has the duke's protection, then it will be difficult for me to challenge her masquerade, and I must do that if I'm to lay charges against her. I need you to verify my identification," he explained earnestly, as if his audience might have failed to grasp the obvious point.

Sir Brian's eyebrows disappeared into his scalp. "My good sir, you cannot be suggesting I journey to London. I detest the place."

"But how else are you to see her?" George stumbled.

"I have no intention of seeing her. If, indeed, she is so established, I would be doing her a grave disservice."

"You won't have her brought to justice?" George's eyes popped.

"I find it difficult to believe that Juliana was responsible for your father's death," Sir Brian said consideringly. "It was, of course, a most unfortunate occurrence, but I can't believe Juliana should be punished for it."

"I will see her burned at the stake, sir." George strode to the door. "With or without your assistance."

"That is, of course, your prerogative," Sir Brian said.

George turned at the door, his face crimson with rage and frustration. "And I will have my inheritance back, Sir Brian. Don't think I don't know why it suits you to let her go unchallenged."

Sir Brian raised an eyebrow. "My dear sir, I do protest. You'll be accusing me of ensuring her disappearance next."

George went out, the door crashing shut behind him.

"Dear me, what a dreadful fellow," Sir Brian declared in a bored tone.

Lady Forsett's fan snapped beneath her fingers. "If he has found Juliana and it is as he says, then we cannot acknowledge her. Apart from the scandal over Sir John's death, her present situation is disgraceful. She may be married, but it's certain she took the whore's way to the viscount's bed, and you may be sure there's something most irregular about the connection."

"I doubt Juliana wishes to be acknowledged by us," her husband observed with an arid smile. "I suggest we wish her the best of luck and wash our hands of the whole business."

"But what if that oaf manages to bring her before the magistrates on such a charge?"

"Why, then, my dear, we simply repudiate her. She's been out of our hands since her wedding day. We have no obligation either to help her or to hinder her, as I see it."

"But if she is discovered, then either way you will lose control of her jointure."

Sir Brian shrugged. "So be it. But you may be sure that while I have it, I am making the most of it, my dear. The trust is turning a handsome profit at present. And, besides," he added with another humorless smile, "she may well be carrying a child. In which case her jointure will remain in my hands if she's found guilty of her husband's death. Her first husband's death," he amended. "She really has been remarkably busy. I must commend her industry. But, then, she always did have a surplus of energy."

Amelia dismissed this pleasantry with an irritated wave. "The jointure will remain in your control only if the child can be proved to be Sir John's."

"How would they prove otherwise?"

"It would be a matter of dates," Amelia pointed out. "The child must be born within nine months of Sir John's death."

"Quite so," her husband agreed tranquilly. "Let us see what happens, shall we? If she is found and brought to justice, then we will simply wash our hands of her very publicly. But I trust that won't happen. I really don't wish Juliana injury, do you, my dear?"

Amelia considered this with a frown. "No," she pronounced finally. "I don't believe I do. She was always a dreadful nuisance, but so long as she doesn't cause us any further inconvenience, she may marry a duke it she pleases, or go to the devil with my blessing."

Her husband nodded. "Benign neglect is in everyone's best interests, ma'am. Except, of course. Sir George's."

"Juliana will be a match for that fool," pronounced Lady Forsett.

"And if she's not, then we shall rethink our position." Sir Brian strolled to the door. "I'll be in my book room until dinner."

His wife curtsied and rang the bell rope to tell the servants to air the morning room. The man's pomade had been overpowering, almost worse than the stale sweat it was designed to mask.

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Mistress Mitchell crouched closer to the wall, the upturned tumbler pressed to her ear. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. The ungrateful hussies were complaining of their usage, of the terms of their employment, were exchanging stories of mistreatment, and now were proposing to set up against their protectors. They were talking of buying their own supplies of candles, wine, coal. Of having a joint fund to support them in need so they wouldn't have to go into debt to their abbesses or whoremasters. It was unheard of. It was rebellion. And it was all coming from that sweet-tongued serpent that Elizabeth Dennison had placed with the Duke of Redmayne. She'd clearly got above herself since her removal to His Grace's establishment. Didn't she know she owed Mistress Dennison gratitude on her knees? But if she thought she could lead the others astray, then Miss Juliana, or whatever she called herself, was in for a nasty surprise. Indeed, they all were.

Mistress Mitchell forced herself to continue listening, resisting the urge to run immediately to her fellow bawds with the news of this traitorous meeting. She was glad of her restraint when she heard them plan to meet again. There was some discussion as to time and venue, its being agreed that they shouldn't use the same place twice, in case they aroused suspicion. Mistress Mitchell snorted derisively at this. Whatever precautions they took, how could they possibly expect to carry off such a heinous scheme of treachery under the very noses of those who managed them?

She pressed closer to the wall as the murmur of voices grew more indistinct. Then she heard Mother Cocksedge mentioned. She smiled grimly. A most unpleasant surprise could be arranged if they met in Cocksedge's house.

From the scrape of chair on floor, the rustle of skirts, the increased volume of their voices, it sounded as if they were preparing to break up the party, so she took her considerable bulk down the back stairs with creditable speed and was hovering in the taproom as they came tripping down in a chattering group.

"Had a good party, dearies?"

"Yes, thank you, Mistress Mitchell." Deborah dropped a polite curtsy.

"And whose birthday was it?"

There was an infinitesimal silence; then Lilly said firmly, "Mine, ma'am. And I have to thank you kindly for your hospitality."

"Not at all, dearie, not all." The woman smiled and nodded, busily polishing a brass candlestick on her apron. "Anytime, my dears."

Juliana was the last down the stairs. She stood for a moment, listening to this exchange, wondering what it was about the woman that made her uneasy. There was something false about her kindly jollity, something artificial in her smile. Then she realized that the smile came nowhere near the woman's sharp black eyes-that those eyes were shifting and darting around the room, looking everywhere but directly at the group of women.

"Come, Juliana. Will you walk with us to Russell Street?" Lilly turned to her, and Juliana shook herself free of unease. It had been a most heartening meeting. Her proposals had been greeted with more enthusiasm than doubt, although there were some skeptics in the group- those who couldn't believe a whore could exist without the protecting and exploiting arm of a master.