Aurora nodded, and lying down, was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. Martha awakened her at eight, and after nibbling a bit on the contents of the plate her servant had brought her, and drinking some sweet golden wine, she was ready to dress. Wiping the chicken grease from her face and washing her hands in the basin Sally held for her, she at last stood up. Her maids bustled about her, dressing her in her undergarments, stockings, and petticoats, until finally Molly and Martha lowered her gown over her head, and Sally, kneeling, settled the skirts of the garment over her mistress's petticoats.

"Take a deep breath," Martha ordered, and began lacing up the gown with skillful fingers. Aurora had a naturally small waistline, and the servant was careful not to pull the laces too tight. Many a tightly laced woman fainted in her desire to be ultra-fashionable.

Aurora stared at herself in the long mirror. Her bosom was certainly threatening to swell over the neckline of the gown, which was edged in gold lace. She tugged at it in an attempt to draw it up in order to give herself a more modest countenance.

Martha shook her head. "There ain't no help for it," she said dourly, and Sally giggled, only to be silenced by a furious look from the upper servant. "We had best choose another gown, my lady."

The clock on the mantel struck nine o'clock. "There is no time," Aurora said. "You know how prompt Trahern always is. Fetch the deep blue velvet cape, Molly." She turned back to Martha. "I have no intention of staying out too long, at any rate. I'll be back before anyone has had the time to dwell on this gown," she promised. Then she fitted her pear-shaped pearl earbobs into her lobes and gave her hair a final pat. "Do you think it looks all right without the twin curls on either side, Martha?"

"I like the chignon, my lady. It gives you a sophisticated look, and besides, a change now and then is good," the servant reassured her mistress. She handed Aurora her cloth-of-gold reticule. "Your handkerchief and little painted fan are inside."

Aurora exited her apartment, Molly hurrying behind with her velvet cloak.

Trahern, at the foot of the stairs, looked up, his eyes widening. "I say!" he blurted out.

"Well, Trahern, you did say spectacular," she mocked him.

His eyes fastened a moment too long upon her bosom, then met her gaze boldly. "I would not have expected such a garment existed in your wardrobe, Aurora. In Calandra's, yes, but not yours."

"The color is better suited to Cally," Aurora admitted. "I don't know why I chose this material, but it fitted your instructions."

Molly set the cape over her mistress's shoulders and fastened the silver frog closures.

"Where are we going?" Aurora asked her companion as they settled themselves in his carriage.

"You will soon be leaving London," he said. "You have seen the court with all its pomp and decorous behavior. But before this young king with his priggish mannerisms took the throne, we had two less genteel Georges. They were kings who openly kept a series of mistresses, and despite their insistence upon a certain royal etiquette, we had a much freer lifestyle. That lifestyle still exists today, albeit hidden away from prying eyes and the censure of those prudish members of the court who would not approve of it. I am taking you to the Brimstone Club. Calandra visited it with me several times, and quite enjoyed it."

He was lying to her, and Aurora realized it almost immediately when she entered the nondescript mansion off of St. James's Park. Cally, with her distaste for the sensual, would have detested the unbridled passion taking place within the Brimstone Club. The footmen opening the door to the club, and taking coats were actually nubile young women. They wore powdered wigs, and their flowered satin waistcoats were cut so that their bare breasts hung out. When they turned about, Aurora was shocked to see their white breeches had absolutely no backs so that their naked bottoms were fully revealed. The men servants, offering glasses of champagne from silver trays, were no better dressed. They wore no coats or shirts at all, and their bare skin appeared to be oiled. Their tight breeches were cut out to reveal both their genitals and their tight backsides. All were very handsome, but their faces were impassive beneath their powdered wigs.

"I am appalled you would bring me here," Aurora said softly in angry tones. "Call for your carriage immediately, and take me home!"

"Oh, do not be such a little Puritan, mon ange," Trahern said. "You do not have to remain if you do not want to, but at least let me show you about before you flee this deliciously wicked place." His grip fastened upon her arm, and he drew her into a richly decorated salon. Within, perfectly attired musicians sat upon a small dais, playing quietly. About the room were properly garbed women, some masked, and others not. "In this room," Trahern said, "ladies who wish for a tiny bit of adventure outside the bonds of matrimony come, and sit to await their cavaliers. Look over there, mon ange. The lady in crimson velvet with the jeweled mask. Look closely, Aurora. It is Lady Estella Jarvis, and the gentleman seeking to escort her to a private room abovestairs is Lord Bolton, the prominent Whig politician. Ah, his plea has been successful. Come, we will follow. There are peepholes where we may observe."

"Are you mad, Trahern?" Aurora attempted to pull away, but his grip was very firm, and she doubted a cry for help in this place would do her any good. Still, she was horrified by the debauchery and drunkenness about her. As they reached the staircase, she yanked her arm from Trahern's grasp, and, turning, almost ran for the front door. "My cape!" she snapped to the attendant, who quickly complied. A servant flung open the door, and Aurora stepped forth back into the cool night. "Have Lord Trahern's carriage brought around at once," she commanded the liveried linkboy awaiting arrivals at the curb.

"Gracious, mon ange, you are far more proper than I had anticipated. I assumed it was a masquerade as it is with so many proper ladies," Trahern said, coming to her side.

"How dare you escort me to such a place!" Aurora said angrily. "I would tell my husband, except that he would call you out, and I wish no scandal to touch the Hawkesworth name. What on earth ever made you think I would enjoy such bawdy entertainment?"

"Your sister did," he replied.

Aurora climbed into the coach, settling her skirts irritably about her. "Trahern, you lie," she said bluntly to the man now sitting opposite her, smirking.

"Calandra was my mistress," he continued.

"Another lie!" Aurora snapped.

"How can you be so certain," he challenged her mockingly as the vehicle drew away from the Brimstone Club.

"My sister hated the physical requirements of marriage," Aurora said with surprising candor. "Making love was anathema for her. That is one of the reasons she ran away from Hawkes Hill and came to London. She would not accept the responsibilities that being the Duchess of Farminster entailed. Valerian had to bargain with her in his attempt to gain an heir. Had she birthed her child successfully, she was to be allowed to come up to London again for a season. The marriage was a nightmare for both of them, and I blame myself. Had I not tempted my sister with a ducal crown, she would not have married Valerian, nor been so unhappy, nor died in childbirth. Valerian and I would have been married back on St. Timothy, and we should have probably had a son by now. You may have lusted after Cally, Trahern, but you had nothing of her, I know, but a chaste kiss on the cheek, or the forehead. I do not understand why you should assume I would enjoy the Brimstone Club. You have made an error in judgment, I fear. I will pardon you, for your friendship has been invaluable to both me and to my husband these past months we have been in London. I would ask you, however, not to call upon me for the next few days."

He was struck silent by her words, astounded to learn that the divinely beauteous Calandra had been a cold and hollow shell. He knew Aurora Hawkesworth well enough to realize that she was not lying to him. He felt himself filled with icy anger. He had been taken in by the little colonial bitch. Calandra had been nothing more than a garden-variety coquette. She had carelessly trifled with his heart, hoodwinking him in the crudest manner possible to believe that there was hope for him, when there had never been any hope at all.

Trahern knew now that the dramatic scenario of Hawkesworth murdering Calandra in a jealous rage was nought but the product of his fevered imagination. The bitch had died in childbirth just as they had said, and Hawkesworth, fearful of losing St. Timothy, had dragged Aurora to the altar. It was just that simple, and the wicked revenge he had concocted in an attempt to redress the wrong he thought done to Calandra was now useless. Or was it? Why should he not be revenged? Had Calandra not victimized him? Had not the farmer duke and his sharp-tongued wife used him in an effort to gain entrance into polite society here in London? His grievance against the Hawkesworths was justified. He would be revenged!

"I apologize to you, mon ange, and I shall certainly honor your request not to call for several days," he said calmly. Bitch! He would never call upon her again, but she needn't know that now.

Lord Trahern's coach drew up to Farminster House, and a well-trained footman was there to open the door. "Good evening, your grace," he said, helping her from the vehicle.