You approve? he asked.

The silk shines well enough, but the color is too mild.

This, I think, is more to your tastes. He ran his finger down a length of deep gold charmeuse. Her skin would feel the same, silken and lithe.

Oh, she breathed. That is ... Her words trailed away, and his mind suddenly filled with images of her, draped in a gold silk tunic. They were her own envisioning, yet they became his, and the vision made his mouth water. In her thoughts, she wasn’t a translucent form, but a woman of solid flesh, her skin olive-hued and burnished, the charmeuse embracing her curves like a lover.

There was silk, too, when I lived, she said, regaining her voice. It wasn’t half as fine. The wonders of this modern era.

They are abundant. But this modern era would be in awe of you.

He felt the warmth of her pleasure. Yet she said crisply, Your flattery isn’t necessary. There’s nothing to be gained by it.

A compliment needn’t serve a purpose. It can simply exist.

Ah. A long pause. Thank you.

Those were not words she seemed familiar with speaking, but they were sincere.

He moved slowly through the shop, smiling politely when an assistant or client tried to catch his eye. The assistants, barely more than girls, blushed and curtsied, though their shy smiles faltered when they espied his scar.

Does it pain you? Livia asked quietly.

It healed long ago.

Not the wound. But the response it engenders.

I used to hate it. Wore my stock so high it choked me, just to cover it. Then I deliberately left my neckcloths undone—flaunting it, I suppose.

Surely that brought you more than a few female admirers. Few things are as appealing to a woman than scars.

One of the customers, a nobleman’s young wife he dimly remembered from a card party, angled herself in his path. She wore an expectant smile.

He nodded, and stepped around her. The sound of her insulted huff bounced off his back.

I was a novelty. A tame monster. They wanted to boast to their friends about taking me to their beds and surviving.

Then everyone benefitted from the arrangement.

Was it a benefit? The single-minded way he hunted pleasure—from one bed to the next, one encounter following another—stripped it down to a basic, animal need, absent of true enjoyment. Barely had he risen from the tangled sheets, discarding the used lambskin sheaths he employed to keep himself in reasonably sound health, before he planned his subsequent conquests.

The grimness of this prospect looted any cheer from the shop. Bright silks dulled, and the curlicue voices of the women flattened into toneless drones.

I . . . Livia sounded oddly contrite. It wasn’t my intent to lower you.

I’ve been low, he answered. Dwelt there for years. Whether I can climb upward is yet to be determined.

He carefully maneuvered himself near his intended target. She idly toyed with a length of lace—Spanish, judging by the pattern. But her rouged lips were pressed tight, and she seemed little interested in the scrap of expensive fabric she fingered.

Something pressed upon Lady Maxwell’s mind.

Though Bram was the only man in the shop, it was a measure of her distractedness that she did not notice him until he stood beside her. Only when her maid coughed politely to gain her attention did Lady Maxwell glance up. She nearly looked twice, her lips making an O of surprise. Of all the people she must have considered meeting at a fashionable dressmaker’s shop, Bram must have been low on that list.

“Lord Rothwell.”

“Lady Maxwell.”

They offered each other decorous bows and curtsies.

“This is an unexpected delight,” he said. He had, in fact, followed her from her home in St. James, careful to keep his horse out of sight from her carriage.

“I was unaware that you patronized Madame De Jardin’s establishment.” She glanced past Bram’s shoulder. “You are here with . . .”

He watched her mentally run through the possibilities. He had no living female relations, and certainly no wife.

“. . . A friend?” she finished. Beneath her powder, her cheeks colored. Mistresses might well be accepted fact amongst the elite, but ladies seldom discussed them with gentlemen in mantua makers’ shops.

“I am alone,” Bram answered.

Except for the ghost, added Livia.

Can’t very well say that to her.

Lady Maxwell frowned in puzzlement. “This seems an odd place for you.”

He shrugged. “I own that such establishments are not my usual domain. Yet of late I find myself greatly missing feminine company. Thus my presence here.”

“Fie, Lord Rothwell.” Lady Maxwell tapped his sleeve with her fan. “You never want for female companionship.” Though she was some eight years his senior, Lady Maxwell was yet a handsome woman, well-maintained, and not above fashionable flirtation.

“Perhaps it is particular female companionship I seek.”

Her brows rose. “You are roguish, sir.” Yet she sounded breathless, intrigued. He knew that tone well.

“No offense was intended, ma’am.” He bowed, noting how her gaze lingered on his calf, then rose higher up his leg. “Might I apologize more profoundly—in private?” He tipped his chin toward the back of the shop, where curtained rooms awaited women for changing and fittings.

Lady Maxwell hesitated. She glanced at him, then at the other patrons. Her maid studiously looked blank.

Is she so corruptible? Livia asked.

Almost everyone is. Especially amongst our set.

Finally, Lady Maxwell said in a theatric tone, “I believe my garter needs retying. Do excuse me.” She hurried to one of the changing rooms, stepped inside, and then, with a pointed glance at Bram, drew the curtain.

She’s rather maladroit at this assignation business, Livia said.

Her usual lover is away on the Continent. She’s out of practice.

Fortunately, she has you as a tutor.

I’m here for a purpose. Bram slipped back toward the curtained room. And it is not Lady Maxwell’s charms, seasoned though they might be.

He stepped through the curtain, and the sounds of the shop grew muffled. The lady in question whirled around from readjusting the small velvet patch on her cheek in the mirror. She took a step toward him, then stopped and narrowed her eyes.

“You’ve never shown an interest before, Rothwell.”

“Always your affections had been engaged elsewhere. With Mr. Sedgwick absent, I thought I might press my advantage.” He narrowed the distance between them, and took her hand.

She gasped, whilst Livia snickered.

“Lady Maxwell. Mary. Expecting you to accept my sudden suit would be a gross insult. If any offense was taken, I beg forgiveness. ’Tis my hot blood, I fear, that makes me importunate.”

With her free hand, Lady Maxwell opened her fan and began to cool her face. “I might pardon you. Perhaps.”

“Let me come to you,” he continued, still clasping her hand. “Allow me to plead my case.”

“Where might you do such a thing?” Her pupils were wide, her breath quick. Mr. Sedgwick was twenty years older than Bram, and Lady Maxwell’s longtime lover. His heated protestations and avowals likely ended over a decade past.

A handsome young suitor such as you? What woman could remain indifferent?

No need for ridicule, Madam Ghost.

I’m not being sarcastic, was Livia’s intriguing reply.

Bram realized Lady Maxwell waited on his answer. “At your home. When your husband is out during the night. I’ll come to you then.”

“Lord Maxwell seldom attends evening amusements.”

“He’s a man of no little influence in Parliament. Surely he has meetings at night.”

A pleat of worry formed between Lady Maxwell’s brows. “He might . . . I don’t know . . .” Her gaze darted to the side, precisely the sort of movement Whit would call a tell.

“Mary.” Bram moved to catch her gaze, and he gave her a long, slow smile. “How can I come to you if I don’t know the particulars of his schedule? I’d hate to spoil our pleasures before they had even begun.” He stroked his thumb across her wrist, back and forth. “Tell me when and where his next political gathering is to be.”

At last, she said, “Tonight. A gathering at Camden House in Wimbledon.”

The country estate of the king’s advisor. Surely that meant that Maxwell and the others in the cabal planned on meeting there to discuss and strategize against John. Wimbledon lay ten miles from the heart of London.

Far away indeed for any sort of business. It had to be a secret council.

So secret that John won’t know of it?

He’ll know.

Having gained the information he sought, Bram wanted nothing more than to bolt from the little curtained room, out of the mantua maker’s, and out into action. But he had a role to perform, and so adhered to the script.

“Tonight, then.”

“But—”

He bowed over Lady Maxwell’s hand and pressed a kiss there. “Until then.”

Before she could say anything further, he strode from the dressing chamber. He gave just a hint of knowing smile response to the curious looks he received.

She might yet tell her husband that you asked about the meeting, Livia pointed out.

Donning his hat, he stepped out into the street. Though the day was at its height, the Strand remained eerily quiet, the numbers of men and women out shopping dramatically thinned. He paced quickly to where a crossing sweep held his horse and threw the boy a coin.