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had for Henry in years. But how sad it had been, she thought. How strange, how
unnatural
his insistence upon segregating satisfaction from affection, copulation from caring. As she learned more about pleasure and desire, she began to wonder if he'd been abnormally lacking in emotional capacity. Had he been dreadfully hurt by someone before she'd met him? Or was he, on the contrary, simply an ordinary exemplar of his type? Perhaps all men were as fearful, as dead to human connection as her husband had been.
    Of course
Billy
wasn't that way, but Billy was hardly more than a boy, only recently grown into possession of a man's beautiful body. And Billy had no choice, she thought, but to take what pleasure he could wherever he could. For he was in no position—
ah, but there's your answer
, she told herself.
Position
. Social priority and power. Money, property—the unnatural but perfectly legal freedom to rule and to exploit—perhaps it was these things that numbed a man to the warmth of shared touch.
    It was a decent hypothesis anyway, and she hadn't yet encountered a gentleman among the
ton
who seemed to present a convincing counterexample. Meditating on this alienation from human connection, she'd come increasingly to model Marston's coldness, self-regard, and empty perfection of style upon it.
    She'd become quite enthralled by these matters. How interesting the human sexual animal was, she'd thought—until a few weeks ago when Billy had come to her with welts and bruises on his body, and her rather abstract fascination had given way to the most concrete rage and horror.
    Absurdly—since it had been he, after all, who'd suffered the pain—she'd burst into tears at the sight of the livid marks on his back and buttocks.
    "But that's what lots of 'em wants from us, miss," he'd told her, gently drawing her into his arms. "Them that don't want to be punished themselves. It's just the luck o' the draw, you know, that you ain't seen me this way before."
    "But… why?"
    Stroking her hair and kissing away her tears, he'd patiently explained to her about the vagaries and varieties of human desire. She'd been abashed at how much she still had to learn from a barely-grown, hardly literate ex-pickpocket.
    "Well, they enjoy it, you see. Why not, takes all kinds, don't it? Ain't nothing wrong with enjoying a thing, if the other fellow does too. Rather like going to a show, full o' thrills and danger. Only you two is the show."
    "Do
you
enjoy it?"
    "Ain't my style, miss. No, I hate it. Ain't no thrill to me when somebody takes a whip to my back. But it ain't me wot's doin' the paying, innit?"
    Mr. Talbot had laughed when she'd asked how much it would cost to buy out Billy's arrangement with him,
    "More than
you've
got,
Mister
Marston. The boy's a gold mine."
    Phoebe breathed a long, steady breath. It would demand some strength of character to maintain Marston's sangfroid while that calculating laugh rang gratingly in her ears.
    "All right, then, sir. Let's see what I
can
afford."
    Finally they'd worked out a new arrangement. Billy would visit twice a week (at even higher rates) and Mr. Talbot would make a serious effort to honor Mr. Marston's delicate sensibilities by keeping the boy's skin unmarked.
    "No promises, though. My rule is that they can do anything they like to my boys, short of bruising the face or injuring the working parts, so to speak.
    "But if Jamie or Jo is otherwise occupied, Billy goes where he's wanted, no questions asked, and it's the customer's right to make forcemeat of him if that's his pleasure. Business is business, so to speak. And
my
business is your pleasure, eh, Marston? Particularly as it's none of my business what
your
particular pleasure might be. You do follow my logic, don't you,
Mister
Marston?"
    She'd followed it precisely, especially the threat to her privacy. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that she'd done what she could for Billy—even if (though she tried not to think about this) it