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dominance. If true, she had responded correctly. Her body still throbbed every time she remembered their embrace. Her body had betrayed her… nay, her intellect had forsaken her, just as John had forsaken her with his abrupt and apparently permanent disappearance.
    She heaved a deep sigh as she absently worried the folds of the counterpane resting beneath her chin.
    I must not succumb to nerves or foolish desires, she thought. I must concentrate on my forthcoming visit to the central library and forget all about John Randolph. I am financially independent. Why do I need a man? I cannot allow twelve years of hard work to suffer because my mind is filled with images of a handsome, dark-haired traitor.
    Traitor? Where the bloody hell did that word come from?
    â€œTraitor,” she whispered. “Betrayer.” Both words seemed an odd choice on the basis of a fleeting encounter, and they evoked an uneasiness in Elizabeth. The morning light streamed cheerily between the green moreen curtains, across the Turkish carpet, yet she felt as if the room was swathed in shadows.
    The clock on the mantel struck eight. Summoning Grace, Elizabeth began her morning toilette. Generally by now she would have joined her host and hostess at the breakfast table. An early rising was an anomaly among the leisure class, which seldom stirred before noon. But Charles Beresford, who had inherited his publishing empire from his wife’s father, continued his mercantile habits. When Penelope encouraged him to linger over his coffee and buttered toast, he’d say, “I’ve a great deal of work awaiting me, my dear,” then reach for his greatcoat. Penelope would look distressed, but any mention of money—or more precisely, the disbursement of it—promptly improved her spirits. Penelope was currently infatuated with bronzes, and unless sidetracked, would spend the entire meal rhapsodizing over her latest Greco-Roman find. Her most recent “must have” was a statue of Fortuna. Elizabeth thought the yellowish-brown statue unsightly, if not unshapely, yet it carried a price tag that approximated her yearly earnings.
    This morning Elizabeth had decided to avoid breakfast. While she figured she could prevaricate as well as anyone, she didn’t want to inadvertently reveal her impending visit to the central library. Questions would surely follow, and Penelope, in her artless but brutally effective manner, would undoubtedly extract from Elizabeth the fact that she was hoping to solve her writer’s block by means of an ancient manuscript.
    With Grace’s help, Elizabeth finished dressing. Then she sat in the window seat overlooking the street until Charles Beresford scurried off in the direction of Minerva Press. Successfully evading Penelope, Elizabeth ordered a carriage and set forth upon her mission.
    â€œThis is far nicer than the carriage we took from home,” said Grace, rearranging her skirts. “The seat is a bit high, though. You’d think with all their money, the Beresfords would have insisted on softer cushions.”
    Elizabeth braced herself as the carriage swayed ’round a corner, and tried to ignore her servant. Their journey south had taken six agonizingly long days. By the end of the first day, Elizabeth had contemplated in what ditch or lonely stretch of road she might deposit Grace. By day three, Elizabeth had wondered what ditch or road she might take refuge in.
    Grace peered out the window. “So many buildings,” she said, the expression on her angular face clearly registering her disapproval. “I’ve seen at least a dozen sprout up since we’ve been here. And all made of red brick. Why is that, I wonder?”
    â€œI trust you’ve heard of the Great Fire, Grace.”
    â€œMercy! When did that happen?”
    â€œLast week,” Elizabeth replied, even though the Great Fire had occurred more than a century past.
    â€œMercy!” Grace repeated.