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happened? Had Joe told him she’d been snapped and carried away?
    She had to get out of here and get back. She’d take Satin’s punishment and promise to make up for tonight next time. Next time she’d make a rum speak. First, she had to escape, but the bastard was proving difficult to evade. He and his brother seemed to think she was the daughter of some swell or other—a Lord Lyndon. The thought made her laugh—and it also made her belly hurt for reasons she did not want to think about too closely. Apparently this swell, Lyndon, was looking for a girl named Elizabeth. It was curious that this girl would have the name Marlowe used in secret, but that did not mean Marlowe was this girl.
    She was a bawd’s by-blow, not some swell’s little princess. And besides, even if her name had once been Elizabeth, that did not mean she was the swell’s daughter. It was a common enough name.
    So why had Satin given her another?
    She shook her head. Better not to question. If Satin gave you a gang name, you used it. Hers was Marlowe, and she’d never told anyone except Gideon that she remembered being called Elizabeth.
    She couldn’t put off the inevitable much longer. With a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped out of the little bathing room. The bastard was waiting outside. His back was to the door, his shoulders broad and his waist narrow in the tight coat he wore. He was a bang-up cove, that was certain. She’d gotten a close look at his clothing, and it was finer than any she’d ever seen. A knave in grain, as Gideon would have said, as well as a long shanks. She’d known tall men, but they’d always been scraggy. This man had substance.
    He turned, and she caught her breath. She didn’t like that he could do that to her—make her throat feel tight and her heart race. But he was handsome—far too handsome. He had thick, dark hair that fell to one side of his face and sort of curled about it. His eyebrows were thick slashes over wide brown eyes. She’d seen innumerable people with brown eyes, but no one had eyes like his. She didn’t know how to describe them except that they were sort of soft and beautiful. They were almost a woman’s eyes—but this man was no woman. He might be clean-shaven, but his jaw was strong, and there was power within him. She’d felt the iron of his strength when he’d carried her. The man did not have a bit of soft flesh about him.
    She’d been watching his eyes, so she noticed when his gaze met hers and how his eyes widened. She almost looked down at her clothing, to see what troubled him, but she thought she knew. Men were always interested in bubbies. “I don’t have anything to bind them,” she said. “If you give me your neckcloth, I could use that.”
    He stepped back as though he’d been burned. “My cravat stays where it is.”
    â€œIf you’re not going to give me your cravat ”—she mimicked his pompous way of saying the word—“then I need something else.”
    He took a deep breath. “This is not a subject I prefer to discuss. You will want to eat?”
    She didn’t know why he asked the question. Of course she wanted to eat. He could probably hear her stomach rumbling at the smell of the food. She followed him into the kitchen, half perplexed and half amused that he did not want to discuss binding her breasts. These swells had their own rules.
    She stepped into the kitchen, and an older woman with her hair in a cap and wearing a clean apron smiled at her. It was a kind smile, but Marlowe didn’t smile back. She didn’t trust these people. The woman was probably a cook, because she indicated the food on the preparation table near her. Marlowe didn’t need it pointed out. She’d spotted it the moment she entered. But she took the gesture as an invitation to begin, and she attacked the meal like a mongrel attacks a