As her breath came easier she moved through the clump of oaks toward her makeshift vine ladder. A twig snapped. Instinctively she pressed her spine flat against the nearest tree and waited, all her street-wise senses alert, cautioning her that she was not alone in the night garden.

She thought quickly. Her head was covered with a shawl, and the dark cloak hid her emerald dress. It was probably only a servant out for air; the odds were in her favor that she had not been seen.

Suddenly the garden came alive with the crash of footsteps and a rush of motion. From nowhere, a dark form flew through the air and slammed against her with such force that she was thrown from her feet and sent sprawling, facedown, on the ground.

The impact knocked the breath from her body, and for a moment, her mind refused to function. Finally, with her forearm, she managed to push her chest a few inches off the ground and roll painfully to her side.

Quinn stood over her,

"What the hell are you doing here?" he raged, his eyes afire.

"Comin' ter see ya," Noelle managed, quickly determining that her only hope was to brazen it out with him. "Fine thing it is, knockin' a body off 'er feet." Painfully she pulled herself up, thankful for the inky shadows that concealed her face. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "And me, with a bun in the oven."

Quinn was immediately concerned and started toward her. "Sorry, Highness, but I thought you were a prowler."

"Don't come no closer." Noelle held up her hands to keep him at bay. "The babe's not 'urt, and I don't fancy another brush with yer. Like ta kill me, yer did with yer scurvy trick."

Quinn suppressed a smile. She was a feisty thing, ready to take on the world.

"All right, Highness. Now, tell me why you've come."

"Musta been balmy in me 'ead for even thinkin' of it," she improvised. "Don't yer be suspectin' I 'ad a drop in, neither. Been stayin' away from the gin, just like yer axed me. But Geòrgie, 'e read yer note ter me, and I made up me mind it would only be proper ter thank ya." She sniffed disdainfully. "If I'd a knowed wot was waitin' fer me, I'd a spared meself the trouble."

"How did you know where to find me?"

"I remembered the 'ouse from afore, when yer brung me 'ere."

Quinn did not bother to hide his suspicion. "That was almost two years ago, Highness."

"I got a good memory, I do." She stuck her small chin in the air in a gesture that was curiously familiar to Quinn although he could not place it.

"I weren't plannin' ter come ter the front door, yer know. I ain't stupid. I was just gonna wait round till yer come out. Anyways, thank yer fer 'elpin' me, and I'll be goin' now."

She turned from him and began walking toward the back gate, expecting at any moment to feel his powerful hand on her arm, spinning her around to face him. When she reached the alley, she could hardly believe her luck. He had accepted her story! She picked up her skirts and began to run, not stopping until she was far from Northridge Square.

For some time Quinn stood in the garden, smoking one cheroot, and then another. Like Noelle, he was a creature of instinct. And now his instincts were telling him that something was drastically wrong. If he could only put his finger on what it was…

Chilled to the bone, Noelle huddled in the back alleys of Mayfair for over an hour. Only then did she permit herself to slip back into the garden and climb the vine to the welcome asylum of her bedroom.

Chapter Twenty

The plump breasts of Mrs. Debs, Simon's housekeeper, jiggled like warm puddings as she bustled through the upstairs hallway, making certain the house was being cleaned to her satisfaction. Every spring and every fall, without fail, her vendetta against dirt reached heroic proportions. She ordered carpets taken up, windows washed, drawers straightened, and cupboards cleared. The house was waxed and polished till it shone. No cobweb was safe, no dust mote protected from her keen eye.

As she passed Quinn's door he emerged from his room, dressed in a dark gray coat and trousers.

"Good morning, Mr. Copeland."

"Mrs. Debs." he nodded.

"Will you be gone the rest of the day, sir? We'd like to do your room today if it won't inconvenience you."

Before he could respond, the shrill voice of the maid called out from the adjoining hallway. "Mrs. Debs! Look what I found in the bottom of Miss Pope's armoire, right behind her slippers. Whatever do you think-"

Abruptly she stopped speaking as she rounded the corner and saw Quinn. "Ex-excuse me, sir." She bobbed a curtsy, the cumbersome bundle she carried in her arms making the movement awkward.

Quinn stared at the rough, dark cloth that held the parcel. It looked like a cloak. There was something so familiar… He felt a tensing along his spine.

"I'll take that."

The bewildered maid stared at him without moving.

"There now, girl, didn't you hear Mr. Copeland?" Mrs. Debs said briskly, although she was as mystified as the maid.

The girl quickly handed him the bundle.

"Come along now. You've work waiting for you. We'll do your room this afternoon, Mr. Copeland, if that's satisfactory."

He nodded distractedly, and the two women left him.

Once in his room, he set the bundle on his bed. For a moment he looked down on it, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Then with a yank he sent the contents tumbling across the bed. As he had suspected, the dark cloth covering the parcel was a cloak. But the other objects, lying in disarray in front of him, bore mute damning witness to his enormous stupidity.

He saw the shawl with clumps of orange hair sewn to one edge and the small ceramic apothecary pots. But it was the tawdry gown of emerald-green satin that brought a curse to his lips. Tattered black lace at the neck, a jagged seam across the bodice and down the front-the dress was indelibly printed in his memory. As he picked it up in his clenched fist something fell from the pocket, landing with a soft clink at the toe of his polished boot. It was a thin, gold wedding band. The blistering fury that possessed him was like a living entity coursing through his blood.

Dorian Pope and Highness, the Soho pickpocket, were the same woman! The same conniving little bitch!

Enraged, he threw down the gown and stalked the perimeters of the room. One deception after another! Lie upon lie! From the moment he had met her at the ball when she had let him believe that she was Simon's mistress, he had been manipulated just as if he were a puppet. And his own father had been a partner to her plotting!

After the ball, the deceptions had been more subtle. Her breasts pushing against him when they danced. The wet negligee that had molded so seductively to her body. The way she had teased him with her kiss. Her hair, molten honey in the candlelight as they dined. All of it was a lie.

Quinn's rage fed upon itself like a fire burning out of control in a drought-stricken forest. How she must have laughed each time she inflamed him and then fled.

He remembered the night he had rescued her in the Soho alley. She had spewed out one lie after another, and he had believed her. Pitied her.

God damn it! He was a blind fool! Dorian Pope had played him… Dorian Pope had… No, that wasn't right. It wasn't her name. The drunken night he had married her, there had been another name. It was French… Quinn reached into the corners of his memory. Noelle. Noelle Dorian.

He looked down at the wedding ring still on the floor where it had fallen and then picked it up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. As he gazed at it he realized with blinding clarity how desperate she was to gain her freedom from him. The elaborate masquerade. The way she had cunningly maneuvered him into offering to dissolve their marriage. It all testified to her desperation.

And with that knowledge, Quinn had his weapon to punish her.

The beautiful Dorian Pope was his wife. And, as his wife, she was his possession, subject to him in everything.

Her body was his property to do with as he pleased.

He let the ring fall back into his hand and closed his fist tightly around it; his mouth twisted mercilessly. Within minutes he had put everything except the wedding band back into the bundle and, slipping into her bedroom, returned it to the bottom of her armoire.

Now, to claim what was his…

A shimmering white moon threw shadows over the garden as Noelle slipped out the back door. Dinner was over, Simon had sealed himself in the library, and she could finally steal away to check the urn for a message from Bardy. A paisley shawl draped over her shoulders, she hurried down the moonlit path toward the gate, her thin slippers soundless on the bricks. She shivered as she passed by the clump of oaks, remembering her encounter with Quinn the night before. Once again her luck had held. If it would just stay with her until she got her papers.

Outside the garden wall, all was quiet. She reached under the blanket of ivy, and her hands embraced the cold stone. Inside the urn was a piece of folded paper. Pulse racing, she extracted the note and tilted it toward the generous moonlight.

Highness,

Our business will be concluded tonight. Be at the Boar's Head Inn off Gough Square at 11:00. My carriage will meet you.

Q.C.C.

Eleven o'clock! It was well past nine now, and Gough Square was at least an hour's walk. If only she had been able to look in the urn sooner.

She rushed back into the house, pausing for a moment to compose herself before she knocked on the library door.

"Come in."

Simon was working at his desk, neat stacks of papers arranged on each side of him.