The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness

by Tamara Lejeune

Genres: Gothic; Medieval Romance

Synopsis

Refinement is everything in the drawing rooms of the ton. But behind closed doors, a world of scandalous passion awaits. . .

A Gentleman Without Scruples

Patience Waverly has no time for uppity English aristocrats—and no desire to become one. But when Patience and her twin, Prudence, arrive in London from Philadelphia to claim an inheritance, she discovers that she is now a Baroness. Prudence, meanwhile, is determined to marry into a title of her own. She sets her cap at Max Purefoy, the future Duke of Sunderland—and, to Patience's dismay, the most seductive scoundrel she has ever met. . .

A Desire Without Limits

Max has little interest in frivolous Prudence, but the outspoken, outrageously attractive Baroness intrigues him. When Prudence's plan to entrap Max almost ruins him, he seeks amends from Patience. She must become his wife. And he will settle for nothing less than making their union one of unrelenting, unending pleasure. . .

Praise for Christmas with the Duchess

"Her engaging hero and heroine keep reader interest and Lejeune provides the ending everyone craves." –RT Book Reviews

Release date: May 26, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

No one who saw Miss Patience Waverly when she first came to London would ever have believed that, mere weeks before, she had been thought one of the prettiest girls in Philadelphia. Eight weeks at sea had been more than sufficient to reduce her from a vibrant young woman of twenty to a weak and bloodless bag of bones. Her cheeks and eyes were sunken, her skin was an unhealthy gray, and her body was lost in clothes that no longer fit her. For propriety’s sake, she had clapped a bonnet over her hair, which hung in thick black snakes down her back, but she was really too exhausted to care about her appearance. Only the ever-present nausea, which somehow seemed worse on land than it had been at sea, kept her from falling asleep in the yellow hackney as it made its way through the busy streets of the city of London.

Her sister had fared much better on the voyage from America. Miss Prudence Waverly’s eyes still sparkled like enormous emeralds. Her shiny, jet black hair was arranged in soft curls, and her skin was like milk and roses. In her royal blue cloak and silk-covered bonnet, she bore a striking resemblance to the Parisian fashion plate she had so meticulously copied.

Now no one would ever have guessed that Patience and Prudence were sisters, let alone identical twins.

Sleek and healthy, even a little on the plump side, Pru Waverly stretched her arms over her head in the yellow hackney coach and yawned ferociously. “Can’t you do this tomorrow, Pay?” she said plaintively. “There are some very nice hotels here in London. I’m sleepy!”

“Hotels are a waste of money,” Patience replied, sounding very brusque as she fought back another wave of nausea. “I asked the attorney to find us a small house in a quiet, respectable neighborhood, assuming there is such a neighborhood in London,” she added darkly.

One heard such unpleasant tales of the fleshpots of Europe.

“It’s only one night,” said Pru.

“No,” Patience said firmly. “It’s foolish to pay for a hotel room when we are renting a perfectly good house. At least, I hope it is a perfectly good house,” she added. “For what we are paying, it ought to be!”

Distracted by the view from her window as they passed a row of shops, Pru gave up the argument, and the chaise continued on to the offices of Bracegirdle, Bracegirdle, and Pym, in Chancery Lane.

Upon hearing that the Miss Waverlys had come to see him, Mr. Horace Bracegirdle first exclaimed, “At this hour?” for it was nine o’clock in the evening. While it was by no means unusual for attorneys to keep such late hours in the city, they did not usually receive clients—and most especially not female clients—after dark. Despite his misgivings, however, Mr. Bracegirdle tugged his best wig over his shaved skull and hurried out to the lobby to meet the two young ladies from America.

Pru greeted him, smiling, and swiftly introduced herself and her sister. To her surprise, the attorney gave all his attention to Patience.

“But you are ill, my lady,” he exclaimed in dismay, hurrying to support her frail body. “Smithers, fetch the brandy!”

“I’m perfectly all right,” Patience said faintly, fending off Smithers. “I was seasick on the journey—and no better now that I am on land, it seems. But I shall be all right in a day or two, I daresay.”

Murmuring his sympathies, Mr. Bracegirdle ushered Patience into his gloomy, paneled office, gently helping her to a chair of oxblood leather near the fireplace. Not at all pleased to be so completely ignored, Pru followed in consternation.

“Really, my lady! You are very pale,” Mr. Bracegirdle fussed, hovering over Patience like a devoted nurse. “If you will not take brandy, perhaps you will take a little water?”

“There’s nothing really wrong with me,” Patience insisted. “I was in excellent health when we left Philadelphia. I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

Pru, unused to being relegated to the background, said resentfully, “We’re both tired. It was a very long journey. You may have been sick, Patience, but I had to nurse you.”

“The sooner we take possession of our house, the sooner we can rest,” said Patience. “Shall we get down to business, Mr. Bracegirdle?”

The attorney seated himself at his desk. “Of course,” he said, taking up a document. “As you know, your uncle, Lord Waverly, died very suddenly six months ago.”

“You mean he committed suicide,” Patience said bluntly.

He blinked at her, surprised and a little offended.

Patience smiled briefly. “We Americans are deplorably forthright, I know. Never mind the spoonful of sugar, Mr. Bracegirdle. Just give us the medicine. My uncle committed suicide. Bankrupt and hounded by creditors, he jumped off a bridge and drowned himself.”

Mr. Bracegirdle looked shocked. “Quite,” he murmured in dismay.

“We don’t pretend to mourn his passing,” Patience went on. “We never even knew of his existence until we received your letter.”

“I think we should pretend to mourn him,” Pru protested. “After all, Pay, he was our father’s brother. Our father never spoke of his native land, Mr. Bracegirdle, but somehow I always knew, deep in my heart, that we were descended of royalty. Father had such an elegant profile.”

“Oh. Did he?” Mr. Bracegirdle said rather helplessly, venturing into the silence that followed Pru’s disclosure.

“I understand there is no will to be read,” Patience prompted him.

“His lordship does not appear to have had the time to make out his will before his unfortunate demise,” Mr. Bracegirdle said, stubbornly clinging to his euphemisms. “Your father, Mr. Arthur Waverly, being dead, the two of you represent his lordship’s only living relatives. As the eldest, Miss Patience Waverly is next in line. Therefore, she inherits. Congratulations, my lady.”

“You mean Patience gets everything?” Pru said, frowning. “I get nothing?”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Waverly.”

“Not fair!” Pru exclaimed. “When our grandfather died, we each got half of his money. I’m just as much Lord Waverly’s niece as she is.”

“The European system is inherently unfair and corrupt,” Patience explained. “That’s why we got rid of it in America. Don’t worry, Pru! I’ll sell off all the assets and split everything with you, fifty-fifty. Assuming there’s anything left after the debts are paid.”

“Split?” Mr. Bracegirdle repeated in astonishment. “I’m afraid you do not understand, my lady. One does not split a barony.”

“Of course not,” Patience said brusquely. “Try to keep up, Mr. Bracegirdle. I mean to sell the land, and split the money with my sister. I understand there’s an estate of about twenty-six thousand acres. I can sell those acres, can’t I?”

“The property is not entailed,” he admitted. “But, my lady! You would not sell Wildings, surely? It has been in your family for generations. I believe it was the prospect of having to sell his beloved home in order to pay his debts that drove Lord Waverly to despair.”

“Well, it won’t drive me to despair,” said Patience. “It’s only dirt, Mr. Bracegirdle. I’m not sentimental.”

“Well, I am,” said Pru. “I’m extremely sentimental. I’d like to see the place where our father was born. Then we can sell it.”

“Of course we must see it,” said Patience. “I’d be a fool to sell it before I know what it’s worth, and I won’t know that until I see it. Do you have any idea what it’s worth, Mr. Bracegirdle?”

“Some might say it is priceless, my lady,” he said, in a rather reproachful tone.

“Nothing is priceless,” Patience replied. “You must have some idea.”

“Perhaps ten thousand,” he said very reluctantly.

“Pounds or dollars?”

“Pounds, of course,” he said stiffly.

“So ... about forty thousand dollars?” Patience said, rubbing her temples. “I haven’t checked the rate of exchange since I left Philadelphia, but I don’t suppose it’s changed all that much in two months. And what is the debt against the estate?”

Mr. Bracegirdle consulted some figures. “Five thousand, seven hundred, sixty pounds, four shillings, and thruppence.”

Patience was obliged to rub her temples a bit longer. “Let’s see ... That’s about twenty-four thousand dollars. Forty thousand, less twenty-four thousand—that’s sixteen thousand dollars. Not bad, Pru.”

“No, indeed,” said Pru.

“But, surely, my lady,” Mr. Bracegirdle interposed, “with your maternal grandfather’s fortune at your disposal, there can be no need to sell Wildings.”

“But my grandfather’s fortune is not at my disposal,” Patience told him. “We are his heirs, of course, but I’m afraid the money has been placed in trust. We can’t touch the principal until we are thirty.”

“Thirty!” Pru repeated with bitter emphasis.

“I am aware of the terms of your grandfather’s will, my lady,” said Mr. Bracegirdle. “I have been in communication with your American trustee.”

“Oh, Mr. Gordon!” Pru exclaimed. “How I hate him! I once asked him for an advance on my allowance, and all he gave me was a very stern lecture. I desperately needed new stockings, but he would not budge!”

“You never learned to darn properly,” Patience said, shaking her head.

Pru rolled her eyes. “Darn! One does not darn silk stockings from Paris!”

“Er, yes,” said Mr. Bracegirdle, looking a little flustered. “Quite. However! Notwithstanding the excellent Mr. Gordon, there is nothing, my lady, in your grandfather’s will to prevent you from borrowing against your expectations.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Patience.

He smiled, showing his yellow teeth. “Indeed! I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up the papers for you. With a stroke of the pen, your uncle’s debt can be cleared away and, with it, all your embarrassment. So you see, my lady, there is no need to sell the estate. You can borrow as much as you like now, and pay it back in ten years, when you come into the fullness of your inheritance.”

“It is not my ambition to live beyond my means, sir,” Patience said coldly. “I prefer to sell the estate.”

“What does he mean, Pay?” Pru whispered to her. “Can he really get us as much money as we want? Give me the papers, Mr. Bracegirdle. I’ll sign!”

“I’m afraid we must have your sister’s signature,” Mr. Bracegirdle told her regretfully. “You are not yet twenty-one, Miss Prudence.”

“Neither is she!” Pru said indignantly. “We’re the same age.”

“Yes, but she is Baroness Waverly of Wildings,” Mr. Bracegirdle explained, “and, as such, she is your legal guardian, Miss Prudence.”

“What?” Pru gasped.

“It is unusual for a female to assume a peerage in her own right, and not at all desirable, to be sure, but, in this case, I’m afraid it could not be prevented,” Mr. Bracegirdle apologized. “Your uncle’s title is as ancient as it is noble, but, sadly, when the papers were drawn up in the twelfth century, no one thought to exclude the female line! A shocking oversight, it seems to us now, but, in those days, they did not perceive the danger, perhaps, of modern women putting themselves forward as the equals of men.”

“Never mind all that!” Pru cried impatiently. “What do you mean she is my guardian? We’re twins! We came into the world together.”

“As I said before, one cannot split a barony, Miss Prudence. My lady preceded you from the womb by some twenty-seven minutes.”

“My lady!” Pru exclaimed, outraged. “What is she? A duchess? I thought you were just being English with your ‘my lady’ this and your ‘my lady’ that. Are you telling me she is royalty?”

“Oh, no,” Mr. Bracegirdle assured her. “Some royalty are nobility, of course, but not all nobility are royalty, you understand.”

“No,” Pru said, frowning.

“Your sister is a baroness, Miss Prudence, a Peeress of the Realm. But she is not a member of the royal family.”

“What about me?” Pru demanded.

He smiled. “Rejoice, Miss Prudence, for you are the younger sister of a Peeress of the Realm.”

Pru scowled at him.

“The title is of no consequence, Pru,” Patience said quickly. “I didn’t come here to claim the title. I came here to claim the estate. The estate is what matters.”

“You knew about this!” Pru accused her. “Why didn’t you tell me? My lady!” she added spitefully.

“Pru, these silly European titles don’t mean anything,” Patience declared, oblivious to Mr. Bracegirdle’s reddening face. “There is no substance to them. They are obsolete, like the monarchy itself. People of sense and education are perfectly capable of ruling themselves. America has proved that to the world. We don’t need a rigid class system to maintain order.”

“If titles and royalty are so obsolete, Your Majesty,” Pru shot back, “why don’t you abscond?”

“I think you mean abdicate,” Patience calmly replied. “If I were to refuse the title, everything would go to you, and then you would be my guardian. That, of course, would be ridiculous.”

“This is ridiculous! I don’t need a guardian.”

Patience winced as her sister’s voice became shrill. “It’s just a title, Pru. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just business. As for being your guardian, I have always given you the benefit of my advice, and, in any event, you’ll be twenty-one next year, and no longer a minor.”

“Then can I sign the papers?” said Pru. “And get as much money as I want?”

Patience flinched. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “When you are twenty-one, you’ll be free to enter into any contract you choose. Just remember, the bank will want its money back, plus interest, when you are thirty. Don’t come crying to me if there’s no money left in ten years.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Your Majesty!”

Patience turned back to the attorney. “I’m sorry you went to the trouble of drawing up papers, sir,” she said crisply. “But I won’t be borrowing against one inheritance to pay off the debts of another! Wildings will have to be sold, along with any other assets my uncle left behind.”

“It shall be as Your Ladyship commands, of course, but selling the estate will take time.”

“Yes, Mr. Bracegirdle,” said Patience. “I’m in no hurry to cross the Atlantic again any time soon, believe me! We are prepared to stay for a year. That is why I instructed you to find us a house in London. You did so, I believe?”

“Yes, my lady,” he replied. “In Clarges Street. I think you will find the rent very reasonable.”

“Ha!” said Patience, looking over the lease.

“Your American trustee has already approved the amount,” said Mr. Bracegirdle, producing another document. “London, Your Ladyship must understand, is an expensive place. Your Ladyship would not want to be in a questionable part of town. Mayfair is very quiet and respectable, very safe, and, of course, fashionable.”

After looking over the documents very carefully, Patience signed, but muttered, under her breath, “Highway robbery.”

Mr. Bracegirdle gave her the latchkey to the house, and Patience tucked it into her reticule. “As your attorney, my lady, I must beg you to reconsider. At the very least, if Your Ladyship would consent to pay off Lord Waverly’s debts of honor ... ? Tradesmen, of course, may be put off for months, but—”

Patience snorted. “Debts of honor? Gambling debts, you mean?”

“It is one thing to make a shopkeeper wait for his money, my lady. But it is quite another to delay payment to a gentleman with an IOU!”

Patience climbed to her feet. “You’re quite right,” she said. “The shopkeepers will be paid as soon as I can manage it. The gentlemen with IOUs can wait.”

“My lady!” he protested, quite shocked.

“Is that everything?” she asked.

“Heavens, no, my lady,” he said, rising from his desk. “There is a great deal more to go over. I have a great many papers for Your Ladyship to sign.”

“Then I’m afraid it will have to wait,” said Patience. “I’m much too tired to read any more documents tonight.”

“But there is no need for Your Ladyship to read any documents,” he protested. “Here at Bracegirdle, Bracegirdle, and Pym, we read the documents for you. All that is required is your signature.”

“Thank you, but I never sign anything without reading it,” Patience said firmly. “My grandfather taught me that. It served him well.”

“I trust you, Mr. Bracegirdle,” said Pru. “When I am twenty-one, I’ll sign anything you put in front of me.”

“No, you won’t,” Patience said. “You’re just needling me! You may call on me in a day or two when I have caught up on my rest,” she went on, turning to Mr. Bracegirdle. “You know the address, of course.”

“Of course, my lady. Smithers will see you to your carriage.”

Prudence fell asleep in the hackney. Patience also wanted very much to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, queasiness overwhelmed her, and she was obliged to open them again.

At last they arrived in Clarges Street. The driver stopped his vehicle in front of one of the neat Georgian houses.

“Are you sure this is Number Seventeen?” Patience called up to the driver, looking at the house with the gravest misgivings. At this late hour, while the rest of the street was dark and quiet, this one house was ablaze with light. Human shadows danced in every window, and strains of music and raucous laughter could be heard clearly from the street. “Quiet, respectable street, my eye!” she muttered under her breath.

Pru’s eyes fluttered open. “Are we here?” she asked, her voice thinned by sleep.

“Prudence, I want you to wait in the carriage,” Patience said in her firmest voice.

Pru yawned. “Why? What’s the matter?”

“Just wait in the carriage until I come and get you!” was the only reply she received.

Patience slipped out of the carriage, told the driver to wait, and went up the steps. Taking out her latchkey, she unlocked the door and went inside.

Maximilian Tiberius Purefoy opened one bloodshot eye and with supreme disfavor, regarded the servant who had awakened him. Bare-chested, wearing only black hosiery and a red satin cape, Max had come to the masquerade in the guise of Mephistopheles, complete with horns and a tail. Every exposed inch of skin, including his face, had been painted with scarlet greasepaint.

“What do you want?” he growled at the servant. “Can’t you see that I am busy?”

For the occasion of his twenty-fifth birthday, Max had invited two hundred of his closest friends to help him celebrate. For the venue, he had chosen an empty house in Mayfair—of which there were many, this being late October and out of Season. The drawing room had been converted into an opium den with cushions covering the floor and Chinamen teaching the neophytes how to smoke. Everyone was drunk or worse, and, needless to say, women were as plentiful as they were available. At the moment, Max was perfectly sated, floating on a cloud of opium, a nameless female snoring in his arms. At one point she had been dressed, one supposed ironically, as an angel. Her white feathers had stuck to his paint, and she was smeared with red grease.

“What do you want?” he repeated, pushing his angel away and tucking his sleeping member back into the slit that ran down the front of his pants. At the beginning of the evening, a huge black codpiece had adorned his costume, but that was long gone.

The servant looked vaguely familiar. “Who are you?” he asked curiously, momentarily forgetting that he was quite angry with this person for waking him up.

“I am Briggs, sir. The butler. Begging your pardon, sir, but there is a lady here.”

Max laughed. “It’s my birthday,” he said happily. “Look around you. There are lots of ladies here. She’ll have to get to the back of the line.”

“But she says she is Lady Waverly, sir!” Briggs protested.

Max frowned in confusion. “What sort of a costume is that?” he slurred amiably.

“Costume, sir?”

“Costume, Briggs,” Max roared, suddenly full of righteous anger. “It is a costume party. I am, of course, Mephistopheles. But what I want to know is what sort of costume is a Wady Laverly?”

“I don’t believe her ladyship is wearing a costume, sir.”

“Lady Godiva! Excellent,” Max approved. “But she should have gotten here sooner. I am spent. Too bad! There aren’t as many as one might think who will do Lady Godiva properly.”

“Lady Waverly says she is the tenant, sir. She has a lease, sir, and a latchkey.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Max, climbing unsteadily to his feet. “I borrowed this house for the night from a very good friend whose name I cannot recall at the moment.”

“Mr. Broome, sir,” said Briggs, who always made a point of remembering his employer’s name.

“Yes, Freddie,” Max agreed. “Freddie is my very good friend. He is also my cousin. He would have told me if there was a tenant coming. Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

“We did not expect Lady Waverly tonight, sir.”

“That,” said Max, poking him in the chest with a greasy red finger, “is quite your own fault.”

Wrapping his cloak around him, he stumbled off in the direction of the sunken ballroom, which had been flooded for the occasion. Two mermaids waved to him from the water. Suddenly feeling quite energetic again, Max unclasped his cloak and plunged down the steps into the pool, roaring as the ice-cold water slapped against his skin.

The mermaids, one blue haired, the other green haired, swam away from him screaming, but it was all in fun, and he soon had them out of the water. Making his way up to the balcony with his catch, he flung them down on one of the sofas and buried himself between them. With screams of drunken delight, they pretended to resist as he struggled to get them out of their costumes.

“Have a care with our tails, sir! These costumes must go back to the theater in the morning, and there will be hell to pay if you tear them.”

“Oh, you’re actresses,” he said, enlightened. “Well, I don’t need a tear, my sweet. All I need is a tiny little hole.”

“Sir!” protested the green-haired naiad. “We’re not prostitutes.”

“But it’s my birth-night,” he pouted. “Can’t you wriggle out of it?”

“Sorry, sir,” the blue-haired one answered, laughing. “It takes a buttonhook and an awful lot of grease to get us out. And even then, you know, there’s our reputations to consider.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” he swore solemnly, freeing a breast from a corset decorated with shells.

He was thus agreeably engaged when a long shadow fell across him. “Mr. Purefoy, I presume?” enquired a fierce female voice.

Looking up, Max beheld a terrifying face with baleful green eyes gazing down at him with murderous contempt. He was deeply impressed with her costume; usually females were far too vain to make themselves ugly for a masquerade. They always did themselves up like angels and fairies and Cleopatras and shepherdesses and, well, mermaids. This female was truly repulsive.

“Medusa, is that you?” he asked, rising to his knees.

Patience gasped as his cloak fell open to reveal his near nakedness. “How dare you expose yourself to me!” she said furiously.

“I’m not ashamed of my body,” he answered loftily. “I get plenty of exercise, as you can see. I must say, I like your snakes,” he went on, struggling to a standing position and reaching for her hair.

Patience slapped his face, wishing she had the strength to punish him as he deserved.

“There’s no need to shout,” he said, shouting in her face. “Heavens! Is that your breath or mine? Who painted your face, love? ’Tis a bloody masterpiece.”

“You’re drunk,” Patience said in disgust. “How dare you! Get away from me.”

Max frowned at her. “Are you trying to spoil my party?”

“Yes!” she said angrily. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

“Well, I’m sorry, my dear, but I simply won’t stand for it,” he said. And, easily overcoming her struggles, he picked her up, lifted her over the balcony, and threw her into the pool below.

Flailing wildly, Patience hit the icy water, her screams drowned as she went under. From the balcony, Max watched with drunken detachment as her heavy cloak and skirts dragged her down to the marble floor of the pool. A most unpleasant, sharp-tongued shrew, he decided.

“Will she drown, sir?” the green-haired naiad asked curiously, sidling up to him.

“Don’t be silly,” Max scoffed. “No one ever drowned in a ballroom. Of course she can sw—” He broke off as he realized with a hard, sickening jolt, that the sour-faced female had not resurfaced. Through the clear water, he could see her dark, unmoving form. Panicking, Max threw off his scarlet cape and flung himself over the balcony railing into the water.

The frigid water shocked him into clearheaded sobriety. His heart pounding, he swam to her and heaved her bodily to the surface. She was only a slight, bony thing, but her drenched cloak and skirts made her shockingly heavy. Gasping for air, Max dragged her halfway up the ballroom steps and out of the water. All around them, the inebriated gaiety of his birth-night celebration continued unabated, but Max now felt far, far removed from it all.

For one terrifying moment, he was certain that he had killed her. Then she suddenly came to life, croaking horribly. Spluttering, she spewed out a stream of water. As relieved as he had ever been in his life, Max hauled her up to her feet and threw her over his shoulder. She was as unresisting and limp as a rag doll as he carried her up the stairs. Pushing through the crowd on the balcony, he made his way to Briggs, who was wringing his hands at the entrance to the ballroom, dithering as though he dared not come any farther.

“Come with me,” Max barked, carrying his dripping burden past him out into the relatively quiet hall.

Briggs hurried to keep up with him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Purefoy, sir! Her ladyship insisted on speaking to you.”

“Never mind!” Max barked over his shoulder. He was heading for the stairs. “Lady Waverly is unwell. We must get her to a room—a quiet room. Where—?”

Quickly, Briggs jumped ahead of him, leading him through the hall, up the main staircase and into one of the bedchambers. “Where is her ladyship’s maid?” Max asked, after depositing Patience onto the bed. “For that matter, where is her husband? If he is a man, he will challenge me to a duel, I shouldn’t wonder!”

“Her ladyship has no husband,” Briggs answered, busily lighting candles. “I suppose her maid is still waiting in the carriage outside,” he added.

Max could hardly bear to look at the pale crumpled figure lying on the bed. “I’ll fetch her maid,” he said quickly. “In the meantime, find a maidservant to look after her—get her out of those wet clothes and dry her off and so forth. And send a boy to fetch the doctor—Wingfield, in Harley Street. Tell him Max Purefoy wants him. I—I must find some decent bloody clothes! And, for God’s sake, build a fire!” he snapped as he strode from the room.

In another room, he toweled off, removing all of the scarlet paint from his face and most of it from his body. A servant found him some clothes that fit him passably. By the time he had returned to something like his normal appearance, the house had been largely abandoned by his guests, though here and there a few stragglers lingered. Some, as was always the case at Max’s entertainments, would have to be carried out.

Smoothing back his hair, Max went outside to the yellow hackney chaise that still waited at the curb. The driver was assisting one of the house servants with his fare’s trunks. Max went up to the door of the vehicle, but discovered it to be locked. Knocking, he said, “Open the door, girl! Your mistress wants you.”

A white, frightened face appeared at the window.

After the departure of her sister, Pru had sat in the carriage, torn between a genuine desire to stay in the comfort and safety of the carriage while Patience dealt with the problem, and an equally genuine desire to defy her sister and go up to the house. Her mind had been made up for her when the doors of the house were suddenly flung open and what seemed like hundreds of bizarre-looking characters came running out. The hackney carriage was an attractive object to them. They clustered around it, hammering on the doors, shouting drunkenly and pressing their sweaty faces against the glass to leer at Pru.

The driver, fortunately, had the presence of mind to lock the doors, thus protecting his passenger. Taking out his club, he began beating them back. Terrified the mob would break the glass, Pru flung herself down on the seat with her arms over her face. After what seemed like an eternity, they appeared to give up, and drifted off into the night.

“Unlock the door,” Max repeated, giving her a smile of encouragement. She was a very pretty girl, he had noticed, with big green eyes, fine skin, and black curls.

Pru stared at him through the glass. He seemed normal enough, if a trifle disheveled. His skin was very brown, in sharp contrast to his eyes, which were a pale gray. His hair was very black and unruly. He wasn’t handsome, she decided. His mouth was too wide and his nose was too big. But he was tall and well-built with broad shoulders and long legs. He had an attractive smile. Hesitantly, she unlocked the