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its side—“SV.”
    When she’d lived in London, she’d discovered many such bottles in various hiding places. This one was her father’s, no doubt, as all the others had been. So much for her aunt’s prophesy that the move from London to Tivoli would cure his intemperance.
    She wrinkled her nose at the vinegary smell of the bottle’s dregs.
    What did he find so necessary in this fermented brew that he’d thrown his life away on it after their mother had died? And how ironic, when the contents of bottles such as this one had been the very cause of her death! For the coachman who’d driven her the night her carriage had overturned had been intoxicated.
    The clouds overhead parted, and the bottle caught the moonlight, momentarily shooting amber starbursts. Anger bubbled up. Under her fingers, the glass heated and rattled. Cracks formed over its surface as though it were arid soil too long denied rain.
    She tossed it away. Arcing in midair, the bottle shattered in a soft explosion, sprinkling the path with golden jewels.
    Gratified, she stepped over the shards and scurried up the stairs. Her bundle was a comfortable weight against her thigh, heavy with coins and the trappings of her secret occupation.
    The coin purse hidden in her armoire grew fatter by the week. One day soon, she would take her sister and leave this place. The money would buy them food and lodging somewhere in the countryside. It would buy anonymity. Security.
    Upon reaching the town-house door without discovery or mishap, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her step light, she lifted the latch and let herself in.
    From the window above, Jane’s aunt Izabel took careful note of her homecoming.
    “Jane has returned from her nocturnal wanderings,” Izabel observed. “In an effort to escape the tightening nuptial noose, she goes on her jaunts more frequently.”
    “She’d best keep herself chaste for Signore Nesta,” muttered the figure that shadowed her. “Think you she visits another man?”
    Izabel’s laughter trilled. “Jane? Hardly.”
    A stealthy masculine hand slid over her shoulder and dusted her collarbone. Hesitantly, as though unsure of its welcome, it delved under the neckline of her nightgown to capture a breast.
    Izabel registered the intrusion with a distant corner of her mind and decided to allow it.
    At her lack of resistance, the palming of her flesh grew bolder. Familiar fingers found and twisted the small silver ring that pierced her nipple, drawing a sigh from her.
    “Come to bed, my love,” the man coaxed.
    Izabel let the window curtain swish back into place. Her eyelids drooped, and she leaned against the warmth behind her.
    Turning her, he lifted her breasts from their lacy confinement and latched onto the nipple nearest his mouth. The slurp and pull of his lusty nursing caused a pleasant tugging sensation in her womb.
    The folds of her gown brushed the backs of her legs, gathering in his fists. Cool air touched her naked bottom as his hands gained the access they sought. Gripping her twin swells, he kneaded.
    Fondly, Izabel gazed at the head rooting at her nipple. She stroked his wavy dark hair, so like her own.
    He was useful, this stepbrother of hers.
    And he was always so agreeably impatient to have her. Outside her bedchamber, rules of propriety had to be observed. There, he could treat her only in a fraternal manner. And on many nights, she deemed it wise to refuse him the use of her body even in private chambers. Denial only served to whet his appetite.
    Should she let him have her tonight? It wasn’t wise to make him too certain he could take such liberties at will.
    However, she had reason to be grateful to him. Six months ago, he’d brought his daughters to live in her home. The value of her younger niece remained uncertain. At the moment, it was Jane who was of primary interest.
    Soon her eldest niece would be made to wed. Signore Nesta had already proven his ability to sire sons. He would no doubt whelp more on