Philbin, unusually subdued, had been dispatched to Portman Street with a fat package of money after helping Stephen on with his riding boots.

He had paid handsomely for last night's sexual encounter and for the exclusive rights to more of the same, at least for the next week.

He did not care about the money. He cared about the deception – he had thought she /wanted/ him, that she had been /attracted/ to him. He had thought it was mutual sexual pleasure they had sought. It was both embarrassing and humiliating to know the truth. And he cared about the trap and the leg shackle he wore just as surely as if she had lured him into marriage.

Why the devil should he also feel responsible for making her respectable? She was /not/ respectable. She had killed her husband. She had sold her body to a stranger and trapped him into being her protector. She – She had lived through a nomadic, insecure childhood and a nightmare of a marriage. Now she was doing what she needed to do to survive – to put food in her stomach and a roof over her head. There was no way on this earth she would be able to find any other employment but prostitution.

She was prostituting herself to him.

And he was allowing it.

He was /forced/ to allow it on the assumption that she would not take his money unless it came for /services rendered/.

Hatred did not come naturally to Stephen. Even dislike did not. He liked people of all types. He enjoyed humanity.

But this morning he was consumed by hatred as well as by anger. The trouble was that he did not know whom he hated more or with whom he was more angry – Lady Paget or himself.

It did not matter. The simple fact was that he was going to make her respectable. And he was going to sleep with her enough times that she could preserve her pride and feel she was earning her salary.

His eyes focused upon a heading in the paper, and he read it and the accompanying article with great attention and without taking in a single word. It might have announced the end of the world and he would not have known it.

For of course he /did/ care if she had killed her husband. It was at the crux of everything. Had she or had she not? She had said she had. Why say so if it was not true? He suspected, though, that much of what she had told him was not strictly true. And something about the way she had simply said /yes/ to his question had not rung true.

Or was that wishful thinking on his part?

It was not a comfortable thing to know that the mistress he had just employed was a self-confessed murderer.

It was all very well to take into consideration the fact that she had probably been much abused. But actually to take up a pistol, which had probably not been simply lying around ready to be picked up and fired, and to point it at her husband's heart and pull the trigger, was…

Well, the very thought of it turned Stephen hot and cold.

It must have been unimaginable abuse if she had been driven to such desperate measures.

Unless she was evil.

Or unless she had not done it after all.

But why lie about such a thing?

And what sort of man was he to have been drawn into her net, even if he had imposed his own terms, when she had actually killed? Or said she had.

His brain felt very much as if it were whirling inside his skull just like a child's spinning top. At last he folded the paper neatly, set it aside, and rose to leave the club without speaking to anyone.

Alice, in a rare mood of open rebellion, refused to accompany Cassandra to Lady Carling's at-home. It was not that she did not approve of Cassie's attending such an event, especially when she had been invited by Lady Carling herself. Indeed, she thought it the very best thing that could possibly have come out of that risky business of last evening's ball. But she did /not/ wish to meet Cassie's lover in any such public setting, where she would feel obliged to be civil to him.

"But it is to avoid going driving in the park with him that I want you with me, Alice," Cassandra explained, watching her friend mending the seam of a pillowcase, a task that she ought to have been sharing. "He mentioned a curricle. I would be very high off the ground and very much on public display. But there is room for only two on the seat of a curricle. I could refuse to abandon you if you were with me."

But Alice would not go. She pressed her lips together and chose to be mulish. Her needle stabbed vengefully into the seam and back out again.

"You would be laughed to scorn, Cassie," she said after a while. "A widow of your age does not cling to a mere companion when a gentleman comes to take her on an outing."

"You are not my /companion/," Cassandra said. "Not any longer. I have not been able to pay you for almost a year, and when I finally offered you some money this morning, you refused to take it."

Alice wrapped the cotton thread about one finger and snapped it off rather than use the scissors, which were on a table at her elbow.

"I will not take one farthing of /his/ money," she said, "or any other money you earn in such a way. It was not this I had in mind for you, Cassie, when you were a girl in my charge. Never this."

For a moment her chin wobbled, but she brought it under control and pressed her lips together again.

"I think," Cassandra said, "he is perhaps a kind man, Alice. I think he is overpaying me, and I am sure he must know it. And he said that he would never – Well, he said that what is between us must always be mutual. That he would never – Well, /force/ me."

Alice turned the pillowcase the right way out, shook it furiously to rid it of some of the wrinkles, and rolled it ready to be ironed.

"Every piece of linen in this house is as close to being threadbare as makes no difference," she grumbled irritably.

"After a week or two," Cassandra said, "we will be able to afford to buy new things to replace them."

Alice glared.

"I am /not ever/ going to set my head on any pillowcase bought with /his/ money," she said.

Cassandra sighed and lifted the hand that Roger was nudging with his cold nose. She set it down on his furry head, and he placed his chin on her lap, looked up at her with doleful eyes, and let out a sigh to match her own.

"His family seems genuinely genteel," she said. "They went out of their way to behave with kindness toward me last evening. They were at the same time, of course, saving themselves from embarrassment and perhaps even social disaster, but even so they all seemed like good people."

"They will have an apoplexy apiece if they think he is courting you,"

Alice said, "or has taken you as his mistress."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, pulling her fingers gently along Roger's silky ear. "He is extremely handsome, Alice. He looks like an angel."

"Some angel," Alice said, setting her needle none too gently in the pincushion on the table. "Coming home with you last night and then /paying/ you this morning and offering more in future for more of the same. Some angel."

Cassandra ran the fingers of her other hand along the stubby remains of Roger's other ear and held both ears up so that he looked sleepy and lopsided. She smiled at him and let go of his ears.

"Come with me this afternoon," she said to Alice.

But Alice had her mind made up and was quite adamant.

"I am /not/ going with you, Cassie," she said, getting firmly to her feet. "I have not been paid in almost a year, as you just pointed out, and that is as it should be. It also means I am free. It means I am not your servant. And I can earn my own living and support the both of us as well as Mary and Belinda – and that dog – without your having to… Well. I know you think I am too old for anyone to employ, but I am only forty-two. I am not quite in my dotage. I am able-bodied enough to scrub floors if I have to or sew for twelve hours at a time in some seamstress's back room or do any number of other things. I am going to be busy on my own account this afternoon. I am going to call at some employment agencies. /Someone/ must want me."

"I do, Allie," Cassandra said.

But Alice was not to be mollified. She went from the room, her back ramrod straight, her chin in the air, and left the door open behind her.

Soon a little face appeared about one side of it, and it broke into a delighted smile as the body followed the face into the doorway and then into the room.

"Doggie," Belinda said, hurrying forward to catch him before he could flee.

But Roger, though an old, rather lethargic dog, was occasionally in the mood to play and was always willing to be petted. He met the child halfway across the room, his tail waving, his rear end wiggling, his tongue panting. She threw her arms about his neck, her gleeful laughter turning to high giggles and delighted screeches as he licked her face.

She had grown out of her dress about six months ago, but she was still wearing it. It was faded from many washings but spotlessly clean. All its worn places were carefully darned. Her cheeks were rosy from a recent washing – which would be repeated if Mary discovered that Roger had been kissing her. Her soft brown curls were held back from her face with a faded, half-frayed ribbon. She was barefoot, since she had outgrown her shoes and wore them only when she left the house.

She was three years old. Mary's love child.

And very, very precious.

"Hello, sweetheart," Cassandra said.

Belinda turned a sunny smile on her and then giggled again as Roger rolled onto his back and waved his three paws in the air. She lay down on the floor beside him and patted his stomach and then wrapped one skinny little arm right about him.