Foolishness, of course. He wouldn't allow it to happen again. He had hired her to do a job, and there was no sense letting mawkish qualms get in the way. It was a contract, a transaction, a business arrangement.

And if he kept reminding himself of that, he might actually believe it.

It was no wonder he was damned, when he willfully repeated the same pattern over and over again, like a little illustration of the fall of man. Not just a fool, but three times a fool. First Anne, then Teresa, and now Mary Alsworthy. All apples from the same tree. Beautiful, yes; clever, yes; selfish and scheming — ah, there were the qualities that drew him, time after time. And why not? Like called to like.

"'Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure,'" Vaughn recited, enjoying the roll of the words on his tongue. There was nothing like a bit of the Bard to add depth and grandeur to one's petty peccadilloes. "'Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Measure.'"

"Very true, my lord," a bland voice commented.

Vaughn spilled brandy on his shirtfront. He opened one eye, regarded two of his butler, decided it wasn't worth it, and closed it again.

"What the devil do you want, Derby?" he inquired, letting his head fall back against the chair.

"No devil, sir, but certainly a maid."

It had clearly been a mistake giving his butler the run of his library. It was one thing to utter ambiguous bits of Shakespeare oneself, it was quite another thing to be bedeviled by inapposite paraphrases from one's butler.

"In plain English, Derby," ground out Vaughn, wondering at the bizarre properties of brandy, which, rather than shrinking his headache, had simply bloated his head, thus spreading the pain across a larger area.

"You have a visitor, my lord," intoned Derby, in the sonorous tones for which Vaughn had hired him.

"At this hour?"

"A woman, my lord," intoned Derby, placing the full weight of his disapproval on the second word.

Did you really believe I was dead?

It was an odd hour to call. Unless, of course, one were a ghost.

"She didn't waste any time, did she?" muttered Vaughn.

"My lord?"

Dragging a deep breath into his lungs, Vaughn ignored his butler and contemplated his options. An oubliette would solve his problem nicely, but town houses seldom came equipped with such amenities. He would have to go and hear her terms, there was no avoiding it. But there was no reason to make it easy for her. A bit of intimidation would do wonders for their negotiations. Nothing too overt, nothing too heavy-handed…just a taste of what it meant to cross swords with a master.

When the solution arrived, it was so obvious that he wondered he hadn't thought of it straightaway. Levering himself up on both elbows, Vaughn's lips curled back in a singularly unpleasant smile.

The great diamond on his finger sparkled like frost as Vaughn gave his butler his orders.

"Take our unwanted guest to the Chinese chamber."

* * *

Alone in the great center hall of Vaughn House, Mary tapped a booted foot against the marble floor.

The sound echoed back to her in a series of phantom taps, mocking her impatience and only making the great room feel even emptier. The imperious personage who had opened the door to her had departed a good ten minutes ago, essaying only a chilly, "If you would be so good as to wait here," before disappearing into the uncharted depths of Vaughn House, leaving Mary without chair or refreshment.

Mary made a face at the coffered archway through which the butler had departed. He might at least have shown her to a parlor. Surely, that wouldn't have been too much of a strain upon his dignity. The entrance hall was pointedly bereft of seating.

Drawing her cloak closer, Mary warily examined her surroundings. She had visited Vaughn House before, for the great masquerade ball Vaughn had hosted to celebrate his return from the remoter bits of the Continent. It had been July then, and the hall had thronged with parti-colored Pierrots, plumed cavaliers, and gold-breasted Roman generals, the room so crowded that the great green columns that paced at intervals along the walls had scarcely been visible for the press of bodies and the intricate scagliola work that decorated the floor had been entirely blotted out beneath the stampede of slippered feet. The warmth of the July night, the heavy perfumes worn by the guests, and the steam of incipient intrigue had all met and mingled to create a heavy musk that draped across the crowd like the smoke from the hundreds of candles that glittered in their silver-gilt sconces.

Vaughn House, alone, on an October night, was a different prospect entirely.

Empty, the room was much larger than she remembered. Only one branch of candles had been lit, held by one of the two great ebony blackamoors that guarded the entrance to the central rotunda, where a great curved stair stretched towards the upper stories, like a snake stretching itself. The meager light cast strange shadows off statuary and gilt-topped columns, turning the marble inlay of the floor into a sinister pattern of shifting shapes.

It was cold, too, colder than she had realized on the brief walk over, a cold that emanated from the floors and walls and chilled all the way down to the bone. Inside, somewhere in the inner reaches of the house, there must be warmth and light; Mary couldn't imagine Vaughn depriving himself of any of the creature comforts. But the entry had been designed to chill, to intimidate, to overawe.

It was working.

Crossing her arms tightly across her chest beneath the cover of her cloak, Mary lifted her chin, affecting a hauteur she was far from feeling. Above, the gilded figures who perched on the tops of the columns seemed to be leering down at her.

This had not, Mary admitted to herself, been one of her better ideas.

Why hadn't she just sent a note? That would have been the prudent course to take, and just as effective. The Black Tulip's proposed assignation wasn't until the following night; there would have been plenty of time for Lord Vaughn to receive her note and reply. There had been no reason to come herself, none at all — other than the hectoring tone of her little sister's voice as she warned her away from Lord Vaughn. Mary's brows drew together in annoyance at the recollection. What did she know of it, anyway? Just because she had a husband — Mary's lips pressed together in a tight, hard line, stopping up that line of thought before it could go any further.

It had seemed, at the time, like a very good idea to thwart her sister and steal away the short distance to Lord Vaughn's. The expedition had been laughably easy to organize. All it took was snapping that she had the headache. No, she didn't want her maid; no, she didn't want a soothing posset; all she wanted was to be left alone. Was that too much to ask? Letty had retreated with a reluctant backwards glance, her anxious, earnest face peering around the edge of the door one last time before the panel had finally clicked shut. After that, it had been the work of a moment to draw all the drapes, pile up cushions beneath the bedclothes, and slip out down the back stairs. Letty might knock, she might lurk anxiously in the hallway, she might even peek around the corner of the door, but she wouldn't enter without invitation.

It was exhilarating to whisk down the back stairs and know that there was not a person in the world who knew where she was, to be entirely, gloriously free — if only for five minutes. Vaughn's residence had been a world away from last season's lodgings on the borders of Bloomsbury, but it was a mere stone's throw from her brother-in-law's house in Grosvenor Square. At long last, she was of Mayfair. And at the end of the journey, there would be Vaughn.

It had never occurred to her that he might not be home. Or, that being home, he might not want to see her.

She wasn't quite sure what she had expected, but it had something to do with being shown into a warm room, with a fire in the hearth and Vaughn lounging arrogantly in a chair. When she entered, he would draw deliberately to his feet and drawl out a remark that might sound like an insult, but contain within it a hidden kernel of welcome, equal to equal. And she would insult him back, in perfect harmony and understanding, no fussing, no false politeness.

None of which could happen if he weren't there.

Mary twisted her head and contemplated the great front door. Perhaps tonight hadn't been the best time to call. All it would take would be a quick twist of the knob and a good, strong shove with one shoulder. If the butler hadn't seen her face…

"Madam?" It was too late. The erstwhile butler had reappeared.

Mary gave him her haughtiest glance, trying very hard to look as though she hadn't been caught contemplating a precipitate flight back out into the night.

The butler was not impressed.

"If you would be so good as to follow me?" he intoned, in the sort of voice that would have filled Drury Lane Theatre twice over.

Mary gathered her cloak about her with as much dignity as she could muster and followed. They proceeded through a stately procession of reception rooms, each more ornate than the last. The butler's single candle struck gold glints off the ornately curled frames of innumerable pictures, hung one above the other in a dazzling display of connoisseurship and raw wealth. Overhead, the passing light revealed glimpses of azure sky. Pink-skinned goddesses, bearded patriarchs, and dimpled nymphs yawned down upon Mary and her guide as they passed below, disturbing their slumber.