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that encircled the Society’s vaulted temple. Below, the chamber thronged with brown-robed men, and looked much as any small, private chapel might, save for the absence of pews and the almost monastic lack of adornment. Indeed, viewed by flickering sconces, the stone walls and floors appeared as grim and gray as the balustrade, with each level broken by alternating stone arches that served to cast shifting shadows over the assemblage.
    The austerity of the temple was heightened by the fact that it was built underground—far below the streets of London; lower, even, than the cellars of the elegant St. James Society, for the temple had been dug beneath them, and the rubble carried out under cover of darkness. Few men living knew of this subterranean chamber, or of the sect itself, for too often over the centuries, the Fraternitas had been all but destroyed by the vicissitudes of religion, power, and politics.
    But time and again, the Brotherhood had hung on. And though they lived now in an age of enlightenment, enlightenment was only as good as the men who stepped forth to defend it, and the Fraternitas had become defensively—and deeply—secretive.
    His hands braced wide on the balustrade, Lord Lazonby leaned over and looked down through his sardonic blue eyes at the milling crowd as Bessett watched him assessingly. “What did you do with that lad from the Chronicle the other night?” asked Bessett quietly.
    â€œLured him up Petticoat Lane and lost him in the rookeries.”
    â€œChrist, that place may be the end of him,” said Bessett. “What can he be after anyway? The reading public cannot still be interested in you. You are out of prison, and exonerated of any crime.”
    His gaze fixed in the distance, Lazonby rolled his shoulders restlessly. “I don’t know,” he said. “It has begun to feel . . . personal.”
    Bessett hesitated a heartbeat. “And I’ve begun to wonder if you aren’t taunting him—and enjoying it.”
    â€œBloody nonsense!” Lazonby’s eyes flashed. “What has Ruthveyn said to you?”
    It was an odd question. But over the last several months, the Chronicle ’s reporter—and his apparent mission to dog the new Earl of Lazonby to his grave—had become an irritant to all of them. There was no denying, however, that Rance’s checkered past left him vulnerable to gossip and suspicion.
    â€œNow that you mention it, I have lately sensed a strain between you and Ruthveyn,” said Bessett.
    Lazonby was quiet for a moment. “Sometime past, I inadvertently gave offense to his sister,” he acknowledged. “I should rather not say more.”
    Bessett’s gaze drifted over the swelling crowd. “So Lady Anisha’s ardor for you has cooled, has it?” he finally said.
    Lazonby cut an incredulous look at him. “Why am I the last to hear of the lady’s so-called ardor?” he snapped. “As I told your brother when he warned me off, Nish is not my type. I adore her, yes. We flirt a little, yes. But she—why, she is almost like a sister to me.”
    Bessett snorted. “By God, she’s not like a sister to me.”
    â€œThen you pay court to her,” snapped Lazonby.
    â€œI bloody well might, then,” said Bessett.
    And indeed, it was not a bad idea. He had been turning the notion over and over in his mind for some time now.
    Lady Anisha Stafford was a breathtakingly beautiful widow whose unruly children were in dire need of a father. And if a man had to confine himself to bedding one woman for the rest of his days, then one could hardly do better than Nish.
    But more important than the lady’s beauty and character was the fact that he need never explain himself to her. Need never be judged. She understood the thin, carefully crafted façade he maintained, that tenuous wall he had built between his conscious mind and the darkness