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She always wondered at what price the old hag had sold her virginity. She only knew the bitch had chortled as someone had held her down and administered enough of the drug to keep her compliant but still awake, that the sum outstripped anything she had received in the past.

At the end of that hideous night she’d been returned to the room full of sullen girls, and she’d lay in her cot, weeping, wanting to die. Until someone sat down beside her and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Crying won’t do you no good, my girl,” Mollie Biscuits had said. “I’d tell you that the worst of it is over, but that might not be true. Old Mother Howard has some clients who like to hurt a girl in order to get it up, but the good news is that even more of them like to be hurt themselves. You’ll end up with the
chance to whip some of the men who want to hurt you, and there’s revenge to be had with that.”

Emma didn’t lift her head, but her tears had stopped, and she listened.

“Many of them will only want you to pleasure them with your mouth, and that won’t take long. Some will want you for the night, but if you know a few tricks you’ll find you can tire them in less than an hour and then spend the rest of the night sleeping in a better bed than this one. Some want strange, unnatural things, and you go along with it, because you have no choice.

“But, lass, she’s old and sick. I’ve heard her coughing, late at night, and she’ll be dead before Whitsuntide. I won’t say you’ll be free then—her bully boys will try to keep you on. And for most of us, we have no place to go. We’ll stay here, and do what we know how to do, because otherwise it’s the streets, and that’s a short ride to an ugly death.

“But you can go home again. Mother Howard will make certain there are no babies, and you can return to whatever country town you came from and forget any of this ever happened.”

Emma had lifted her head then, and her tears had stopped. The woman sitting opposite her was large and comfortable-looking, older than the women who watched her with wary sympathy. “I can’t go home…. That would be worse.”

Mollie Biscuits had nodded. “Then you’ll make the best of it here. We’ll help you, won’t we, girls? There are tricks of the trade, so to speak. And Mother
Howard’s sister isn’t as hard a soul as the auld bitch. If she takes over we’ve got half a chance to make things better in this place.”

Emma had sat up then, looking around her. The attic dormitory was cold and dirty, the narrow beds lined up against the two walls. The food she’d had so far was foul, there was no way to wash and the privy was disgusting. Worse, she thought she could feel bugs crawling on her skin.

“No choice, my girl,” another woman, a young redhead with an Irish accent had said. “May as well make the best of it.”

And something had hardened inside Emma right then, a core of steel she’d never known she’d had. They were right—there was no choice. Her father had always told her she was born to tempt men; her grandfather had told her she would be a whore when she grew up. It was her fault, she’d been born that way and there was no escape.

But she could make things better. She didn’t have to live in hunger and filth. “Yes.” Her cool, elegant voice had hit a note of determination. “We can make the best of it.”

Mollie Biscuits had chuckled comfortably. “Well, listen to ’er ladyship talk! You’re a right proper one, aren’t you? Must be some toff’s bastard to end up like this, but we don’t worry about where any of us come from. From now on, we’re your family. I’m Mollie Biscuits, this is Agnes and Long Jane, Jenny and Agnes and Thin Polly. I’ll introduce you to the others when they wake up. We look after each other,
we do. Warn each other of the bad ones. Some of the girls like some tricks better than others, and if we’re careful we can trade off. Mother Hubbard doesn’t mind, as long as the gentlemen are satisfied, and her sister will be easier to get around. And once you’re used to it, it’s not hard work.” She let out a wheezing laugh. “At least you’re not on your feet all day.”

Mollie Biscuits hadn’t looked like she was born to tempt men. She was plump and plain and cheery. The other women didn’t look like evil sirens either, just tired young women, most of them pretty enough. Clearly they weren’t the cause of their downfall, only the victims.

But Emma had known she was different. She knew in her heart she was evil, and she belonged in this life.

But she could make it better. For herself, and for the others. And she had.

Mollie Biscuits had been right—Mother Hubbard had died soon after Easter, and her sister had taken over. It had been easy enough to start helping out. For one thing, it got her out of having to provide for as many of the gentlemen who showed up at the White Pearl. For another, as Emma had slowly gotten Mrs. Timmins, who’d never been married, to clean up the place and serve better meals, she’d been able to charge more for her stable of girls. Emma had convinced her to put the extra money into sprucing up the building, bringing in a better class of customer and correspondingly higher fees, and it had gone from there. By the time Mrs. Timmins had
died Emma was nineteen years old and more than ready to take over the reins of the business. She’d dismissed all the bully boys but one, and she’d kept him on to keep the girls safe from unruly customers. She’d instituted baths and good food and most of the money going toward the girls.

She’d sold their bodies, even though they were willing and grateful for her care, and she had to pay penance, for that and for the sins her body had forced from her family. She had no doubt it was that sinfulness that had caused her mother to kill herself. She’d known what a demon she’d given birth to.

And so she’d taken to going to St. Martin’s Hospital every few days, to help out, and Mollie Biscuits would go with her. No other women ever went to the public hospital—only whores were considered suitable for such work. She’d done what she could for the sick and the dying, the soldiers home from the Afghan wars with arms and legs missing, with eyes clouded with madness from the horror they’d lived through. Most of them died, and she found she couldn’t be sorry. It was the only relief they could look forward to.

She’d done what she could to help keep the rooms clean; she helped change dressings, ignoring the foul stench of putrefaction. She’d helped when the doctors had taken off limbs, sitting on the chest of a screaming patient while others held him down. She’d cradled the dying in her arms, singing old Welsh
lullabies in their ears as she’d rocked them. She’d washed the dead and she’d fed the living.

And she’d met Brandon Rohan one stormy winter day, and life hadn’t been the same.

B
randon Rohan leaned heavily on his cane as he moved down the narrow corridors of the caves riddling the countryside at Kerlsey Manor in Kent. He was dressed in a monk’s robe, though he found that particular conceit quite ridiculous. Everyone would know him by his limp, even if his head and face were covered with a cowl. But the Grand Master had decreed that they would no longer show their faces when they met, and he had no choice but to obey, and part of him approved. The meetings of the Heavenly Host were for darkness and privacy. He had no wish to face his fellow celebrants later at his mother’s house, and, given the people who had belonged to the Host’s notorious roster, it was always a distinct possibility.

No, discretion was wise. Nowadays he didn’t even know who led the Host, nor did anyone else he bothered to ask. It didn’t matter. The Grand Master was one of them, and that was what counted. He made
the rules, set the dates and locations of the gatherings, and with his guidance their membership had swelled.

They’d been meeting in Kent ever since Brandon had first been able to get around by himself. Kersley Hall had been largely destroyed by a fire, and then abandoned by its indigent owner. Enough remained of the structure that they could meet, and the series of chalk caves beneath it proved most utile. There were an infinite number of rooms leading off those twisting caves, and one could do anything one pleased within those walls.

And the screams never carried to the surface.

He knew a moment’s doubt, but he quickly pushed it away. He wasn’t particularly interested in the unwilling partners some favored, the ones who were well paid for the honor. He preferred women who didn’t fight him. Witnessing it had been horrifying enough.

But he wasn’t going to think about that. If the others preferred their whores to simulate resistance, then who was he to judge? They were well paid, and if, by any chance, some of that resistance was real, it was hardly his concern. “Do what thou wilt” was their motto, and none of the members passed judgment upon each other.

He wondered what Benedick would think of it. Their own father had been involved in the Heavenly Host when he was young, and his father before him. Benedick would probably disapprove, but Brandon was only following in the family footsteps. If his
dour older brother disliked it, he could go back to Somerset.

He could hear the low rumble of voices from a distance. They had already started, with their silly attempts to raise the devil. Brandon didn’t believe in the devil, believe in hell. He’d already looked into the face of it in the Afghan.

He needed to get off his bad leg. He needed someone to distract him from the pain. He needed opium to dull the worst of it. He would find those things at the end of the corridor.

He heard a woman scream, and for a moment he froze, as the sound was quickly cut off. They were well paid for it, he reminded himself coldly.

And he limped onward, toward the dimly lit cavern.

Benedick would have happily forgotten all about the annoying Lady Carstairs had he not run smack into her in St. James Park, shepherding her little flock of soiled doves. He might not have even noticed their presence had it not been for the sudden outraged expression on his future fiancée, the very proper Miss Pennington, and he turned to follow her gaze.

“It’s that woman,” his intended said in a tight voice. “How dare she parade those…those creatures here among the gentry? Has she no sense of decorum, no sense of what is right and proper? Someone needs to take her in hand and explain a few things.”

He looked over at the group lazily. Lady Carstairs was dressed in the same boring clothes she wore
before, of cloth and execrable fashion, with that bonnet covering her hair and face. The women following her looked for all the world like overgrown schoolgirls rather than the poor unfortunate, and he gazed at them idly, wondering how many of them he’d bedded before Charity Carstairs had lured them into unfortunate rectitude.

La Violette wasn’t present, and he wondered whether she was being punished. Locked in a dungeon on bread and water, perhaps. It was no wonder she’d jumped at his offer.

“They’re simply enjoying a public park on a fine day,” he said mildly enough.

“If they’re so desirous of the salubrious effect of fresh air, they should take themselves to Hyde Park, rather than these more cultured confines.” Miss Pennington’s eyes narrowed. She had rather small eyes, he noticed for the first time. Hard and unforgiving. “I wish you might go and give the woman a hint.”

“That would hardly be appropriate, Miss Pennington. I believe Lady Carstairs’s home is nearby—it only makes sense that she bring the women here.”

“Sir Thomas must be rolling over in his grave. She’s turned that house into nothing more than a…a brothel.”

“Hardly. I believe the point of the matter is that the women have foresworn their previous…activities.”

“And you see, that’s what kind of trouble she brings among us,” Miss Pennington said, much incensed. “I shouldn’t be discussing this with a gentle
man. I shouldn’t even know such women exist, and yet what choice have I, when she constantly thrusts them in our faces.”

He thought for a moment that he might like one of Lady Carstairs’s soiled doves to be thrust into his face. He looked down at Miss Pennington, mentally crossing her off his list of potential brides. Not only did he not want to wake up in the morning and meet those small, disapproving eyes, but he didn’t want his future children subjected to them. And suddenly he wanted to get away.

“If you wish, I could go speak with Lady Carstairs,” he said. “But I would be loath to leave you here without an escort.”

Miss Pennington’s trill of laughter was clearly supposed to remind him what a good sport she was. “Don’t be silly, Lord Rohan. I have my maid and a footman with me. I often have been bold enough to walk on my own with only their company. After all, I’m no longer a green girl. Go on and tell Lady Carstairs that she’s not wanted here. I’ll make my way back home on my own.”

No longer a green girl, he thought, but a bitter old woman, and only twenty-three to boot. He gave her an angelic smile, brought her gloved hand to his mouth and then realized his unruly passion would offend her. “As you wish, Miss Pennington,” he said, bowing as she walked away, and he mentally consigned her to the devil.

He turned, and looked at Lady Carstairs. She was a bit above average height, and he liked that in a
woman. It made her a worthy opponent. She was quite deliciously rounded, and for a brief moment he wished his first supposition had been right. He would have enjoyed venting some of his suppressed sexual energy on that soft, sweet body, having those long legs wrapped around his hips as he moved deep within her.

He cursed softly at the sweet picture he’d conjured up and his predictable physical reaction. As an antidote he thought of Miss Pennington’s mean little eyes, and with relief he felt his arousal subsiding.

He considered strolling back home. He had no intention of warning “Charity” Carstairs off—Miss Pennington’s demands notwithstanding. If a gaggle of soiled doves were going to parade around St. James Park he was going to enjoy it.

But at that moment he also had the perfect opportunity to confront Lady Carstairs, and with a grim smile on his face he started toward her.

Melisande was doing an admirable job keeping her girls from flirting with all and sundry as they walked down the length of the ornamental canal. She was a firm believer in the efficacy of fresh air and exercise, though Miss Mackenzie, her former governess and now head of the teaching staff at Carstairs House was usually the one responsible for their exercise. But apparently the girls had been causing too much of a stir, and Melisande knew that there were a great deal too many men with too much time on their hands loung
ing around Green Park, and she’d decided St. James might be the wiser direction.

She’d been wrong. The young women were somehow managing to make their sober clothes seem like the frivolous wardrobes of the demimondaines they had once been, further convincing Melisande of the truth that seductiveness was a matter of attitude, not dress or even natural beauty. Fortunately she was as devoid of seductiveness as she was of everything else, so she’d never had the chance to test her theory.

But the girls were sashaying along, swinging their hips, and while they loved Melisande, obeying her was the least of their worries. And to top it off, Viscount Rohan had chosen today of all days to take a stroll in the park.

Emma had spent the last few days passing on much too much gossip about the man, and all Melisande’s protests couldn’t seem to silence her. She’d learned about his two dead wives, the fiancée who’d shot herself, and his current quest for a conformable wife, with the Honorable Dorothea Pennington in the lead for the position. She’d learned about his decadent family, a dynasty of rakes and libertines, his estate in Somerset and a bit too much about his purported prowess in bed. Not that Emma had ever sampled him, she assured Melisande. But the girls under her care had talked, and it was seldom that the gentlemen came in for praise. Benedick Rohan was held in awe.

Which was none of her business. She didn’t want to listen to Emma’s disclosures, she didn’t want to
think about the man and his dark eyes looking at her with such cool contempt. Indeed, for the last two days Emma seemed to have forgotten all about him, and Melisande had been happy to dismiss him, as well. It was with deep regret that she recognized the tall, lean figure bent assiduously over Dorothea Pennington’s skinny body.

She had hoped he’d be so busy with his flirtation that he wouldn’t notice her presence. The girls had seen him immediately, with those instincts that could find a wealthy, attractive man in a crowd in under a minute, but Melisande had simply hurried them on, her face averted, praying he would leave the park before they were back from their forced march along the canal.

“Lady Carstairs,” one of the girls said in a cross between a whine and a wheeze. “Could you go a little slower, if you please? I’m fair winded.”

“Nonsense,” she said, and quickened her pace. “We’re here for exercise and fresh air, not for social purposes.”

“Couldn’t we do both?” asked Raffaela, and Melisande knew a moment’s guilt. Raffaela was the daughter of an Italian sailor and an Irish doxy, and she walked with a limp, thanks to the badly broken leg that had never set right, due to a backhanded slap from her pimp that had sent her tumbling in front of Melisande’s carriage. However, she had seen Raffaela race up the long flights of stairs at Carstairs House without a moment’s hesitation when there was
something she wanted, and she only slowed her pace marginally.

“We have no need of male companionship.” Melisande’s announcement held a practiced cheerful tone.

“Speak for yourself,” one girl muttered from the back of the line, but Melisande ignored her.

“We’ll have tea and cakes when we get back,” she said, hoping to bribe them into behaving.

“Now there’s a bit of crumpet I wouldn’t mind ’aving,” another girl said, looking past her, and Melisande knew a sudden, lowering presentiment. Please let him have taken off with the saintly Dorothea, she thought desperately. Don’t let him be waiting here.

But she knew exactly who had come up behind her, his shadow on the pavement looming over hers. With a quick intake of breath she turned, plastering her most disarming smile on her face.

“Lord Rohan,” she said cheerfully.

“Lady Carstairs.” Yes, his voice was as deep as she remembered it. Really, if all men had voices like Rohan did then her job would be a great deal more difficult, she reflected. She could practically hear the sighs from her bevy of charges, but she stiffened her spine. After all, these women had already shown themselves to be susceptible to male lures, and he had what some women would doubtless consider a seductive voice to go along with his austere, handsome face and tall, elegant body.

It was a good thing she was immune, and always
had been. The women behind her were no better than moonstruck girls—she could practically hear their gusty sighs. The sooner she got them safely back to the confines of Carstairs House the better. They had been doing an admirable job of adjusting to their new lives, but Viscount Rohan could tempt a saint.

However, he was the one who’d approached her, and she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of prolonging the conversation. He knew who she was, which was interesting. He must have asked about her.

She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that, but she knew better than to be flattered. He’d assuredly wanted to know who that annoying woman was, who’d spoiled his afternoon debauch.

Finally he spoke, and his voice sent silver shivers down her spine. “I believe I owe you an abject apology, Lady Carstairs. I was under a misapprehension about your identity and treated you…impolitely. I crave pardon.”

“You treated me abominably. However, since I’ve never been mistaken for an abbess before, the novelty of it almost made up for the insult. I presume the gossiping tongues have filled you in on my mission.”

His smile was faintly mocking. “Your mission? Indeed. You wish to deprive the men of London of their most cherished pastime.”

This time she did hear an actual sigh from one of the girls. She ignored it. “I thought you all preferred horses and gaming to sexual congress?” Most men were shocked by her plain speech, but his cool, handsome face was still composed of polite lines.

“It depends on the girl.”

“And the horse,” she shot back.

An expression flickered in his eyes for a moment, one of surprise and something else. Respect? Amusement? She was looking for things that were not there. “And the horse,” he agreed. “As for mistaking you for an abbess, I do believe I mentioned that you were an extremely unlikely one.” His dark eyes slid down her deliberately dowdy dress.

Ungallant bastard, she thought calmly, wishing she dared say it out loud. But there was a limit as to how far she would go, and she had no wish to tweak the tiger’s tail. She had the suspicion that Benedick Rohan would be most unsettling if roused. “Indeed,” she said briefly. “Was there anything else? Because if not, I accept your apology and bid you good-day.”