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protect it from malevolent forces that exist in other planes, and those who seek to use them.'
    - ' U NDERSTANDING THE D IVINE ', by Sir Anthony Scott
    THEBUSTLINGSTREETS of Covent Garden were their first stop. Ianthe alighted from the duke's carriage with effortless grace.
    Lucien raked the streets with a hard glance. "You think someone here took the Blade?"
    "No. But this is where I'm going to start my search."
    "That makes little sense."
    "All will be revealed, Rathbourne."
    Bright theatre posters screamed their headlines to the world as she paused at the entrance to the Phoenix Theatre. Behold: The Great Remington Cross and, his beautiful assistant, the exotic Sabine . Tugging her key out of her reticule, Ianthe let herself through the theatre doors.
    Lucien prowled past her, his dark hair brushing against his collar, as he lowered the smoked glasses he had taken to wearing. Absurdly long and unfashionable, that hair, but her eyes lingered.
    Damn Drake for saddling her with him, when she needed all of her wits.
    Ianthe followed him over the plush red carpets. The walls here were yellow-striped wallpaper, a far cry from the entrance the working classes used to keep them separate from the rich. That entrance led directly to the galley, the tier in which the poor were allowed to inhabit. There was no wallpaper there, no plush carpets. Illusion was everything in this world she'd once known.
    Lucien unfurled a faded poster, straightening out the rolled up edge until he could see the painted figure upon it, with her blonde curled wig, devilish smile, and spangled gown. The Mysterious Sabine. Those unusual golden-brown eyes cut toward Ianthe, and she had no difficulty interpreting the look.
    "It was an occupation," she said, preceding him toward the auditorium. "One that an occultist excels at. We don't all have vast inheritances to fall back upon."
    "You use sorcery to entertain?"
    Ianthe turned on her heel, the abruptness of the move leaving her face-to-face with him. He jerked back before he could slam into her. "Go ahead," she said fiercely, "mock me. All I have to do is order you to hop on one foot for the rest of the day. You know you'll have to do it." Her eyes narrowed. "Or perhaps you'd like to wear a dress?"
    He'd given his word to obey her, sealed in blood. Even now, the mark between her breasts tingled.
    "And tonight, you'll be mine." Leaning closer, Rathbourne reached out and brushed the backs of his knuckles against the smooth skin of her décolletage, branding her with the touch, his lips thinning with anger. "Imagine how I'll seek my revenge."
    Ianthe could imagine it. All too well. Wickedness had been her downfall once, and it proved to be her weakness now, for she felt that tremor of sensation all the way through her.
    And so did he, judging by the heated look in his eyes.
    Suddenly, it wasn't anger that marked the air between them.
    "Be careful what you ask for." Ianthe reached up on her toes to whisper the words into his ear, her hands hesitantly pressing against the roughened fold of his coat collar. "Revenge can be the sweetest thing. If you think I won't surrender to you, you're wrong. If you think that I can't twist you around my little finger whilst submitting to your desires... then think again. I'll brand myself on your skin, Rathbourne. I'll make you forget every other woman you've ever been with." This, the enticing words, were something she had learned over the years as Sabine. To warp the taste of a man's desire until he was panting at her feet, breathless for the want of her. "And when this is over," she drew back, glancing up beneath her lashes at him, "when we break this bond... You'll beg me to take you back."
    Hard fingers manacled her wrists. Rathbourne lowered his face to hers, his breath caressing her sensitive lips. Interest flared in his eyes. "Are you challenging me?"
    The sensation of her perceived helplessness ignited her body. All she had to do was tell him to stop. She knew it. So did