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go down to Madame Foucher’s in Oxford Street. Purchase yourself an assortment of undergarments and nightclothes. I trust I need not tell you what sort?”
    Numbly, Isabella took it. “N-no, ma’am,” she replied. “But I cannot take your money.”
    “Nonsense,” said the marchioness tartly. “You may pay me back if you insist. There is enough there, I trust, to settle your rent ’til next quarter day and fill the larder before you go off in whatever direction this takes you.”
    Isabella glanced at the note. “Yes, ma’am, quite.”
    “Very well, I will call on you by week’s end,” she said. “Be prepared to leave that instant should an opportunity have arisen.”
    Isabella folded the paper in half, then pressed it between her palms. “Thank you,” she whispered. “ Thank you, my lady. I shall be forever grateful.”
    The marchioness sighed and shut the desk.
    “Then why is it, my dear Mrs. Aldridge,” she said grimly, “that I feel as if I am sending my lamb to the slaughter?”
    JUST A FEW short days later, and only a mile and a half away in Clarges Street, a less innocent sort of sheep found himself being led to slaughter, and by a far less tender shepherdess. Anne, Lady Keaton, practically had the rope round her cousin’s neck before his lordship apprehended that the sanctity of his home had been invaded.
    With a wary eye, Hepplewood watched her sweep into his study in a whirl of teal-colored silk, her dainty heels fairly snapping across the marble floor.
    Fording, his butler, shot him a withering look before bowing low and shutting the door.
    The lady was nothing if not sly; Hepplewood had slunk back into London little more than two days earlier, and save for one small matter of personal business— very personal business—he’d laid low, calling upon no one.
    Still, he believed a man ought to be gracious in defeat.
    “Good morning, my love,” he said, rising. “You are in radiant good looks.”
    “Stubble it, Tony,” said Lady Keaton, shrugging off her shawl. “You’ve a nasty little bruise beneath that eye. Dare I hope your latest mistress put you in your place?”
    “Actually, I fell,” said Hepplewood, “against her fist. And alas, she’s not my mistress—though I will confess, my dear, to having given it a good go.”
    “Ha! She refused you!” Lady Keaton flung the shawl over his leather sofa, and her reticule after it. “A rare event, I daresay. But one of these days, my boy, you’ll get your heart royally trod upon, or some lover scorned will stab you in the back. I wonder, honestly, how you sleep at night.”
    “Oh, cowards die many times before their deaths, but the valiant taste of death but once,” said Hepplewood, studying his manicure as his cousin plopped herself into his favorite chair. “But I trust, Anne, you’ve not come to inquire into my affairs of the heart?”
    Lady Keaton had the audacity to point at an especially private place. “Is that where you’re packing your heart nowadays, Tony?” she said on a laugh. “No? I thought not. So no, I have not come to discuss your affairs—and you are no Caesar, by the way.”
    Hepplewood smiled and settled himself on the sofa. He glanced again at Louisa Litner’s missive lying open on his desk, and the strangest shiver of desire ran through him.
    Anne was right, of course. He hadn’t an ounce of judgment when it came to women.
    “Tea?” he said. “Or coffee?”
    “No, and no. Thank you.”
    “Gin? Scotch whisky?”
    “It’s barely half past one,” said Lady Keaton on a sigh. “Now pay attention, Tony. I’ve come about Lissie.”
    “Lord, Anne, not again!” Hepplewood got up and poured himself a whisky. He was going to need it.
    “You are drinking too much,” said Lady Keaton, watching him. “I blame it on your mother’s death.”
    “Why? It was sudden, and it was merciful.” Hepplewood rammed the crystal stopper back in and returned to his chair. “Still, it’s as good an excuse as any, I