Prologue

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

J une 16, 1822

No. 24, Circus Rd., St. John’s Wood

Margot Fauchette continued to maintain her look of bored insouciance despite the lewd request Alex du Morant had just rasped into her ear, along with a quantity of spittle he’d drooled on her in his absinthe-induced fog.

She was between protectors at the moment and had drifted aimlessly for a few months, living off the proceeds of the sale of the jewelry her former wealthy patron had thrown at her whilst storming out of her small cottage at the less-than-respectable end of Grove End Road.

An off-hand invitation to one of Ponsley-Wells’s extravagant parties had piqued her interest, since she was in search of support once again. She didn’t think she could wait until the next Cyprians’ Ball where wealthy patrons swirled among the choice courtesans of London’s most elite demi-monde.

She’d already had to forego her daily delivery to her door of fresh flowers and expensive fruits and vegetables. She couldn’t wait any longer to find her next protector.

Just when she’d nearly given up attracting the regard of one of the young lords living an extravagant town life on their family’s generous allowance, the din of the crush of revelers around her was cleaved by an ear-searing scream. When everyone rushed toward the sound, she followed.

A young woman lay unconscious atop a swirl of expensive silks and brocades on a large bed in a private room off the main ballroom where P-W invariably lured naive young women, or men. The only sign she lived was the subtle rise and fall of her barely covered breasts. She was dressed in the costume of the dance of the veils. The diaphanous scarves hid little of the woman’s luscious curves.

Margot clenched her thighs together at a sudden wave of desire. She glanced around furtively, fearing she might actually have moaned aloud and alerted one of the guests to her preference in partners. She gave a quiet snort that no one would have heard anyway in the massive crowd.

No one cared about what women wanted. Women were nothing more than objects of lust to these partygoers. The idea that they might have dark desires of their own was routinely treated as unthinkable. Which made the world Margot moved in a fairly safe place…as long as she acted the part that was expected of her.

She was a popular, well-known courtesan, a beautiful object of pleasure available to the highest bidder. She saved every penny she could hoard from whatever largess her latest lover chose to bestow.

However, she was now between amors. She owed no man her allegiance at the moment. Her previous mission was eclipsed by the defenseless young woman at the center of the crowd’s lurid interest. Margot was certain she was probably the only guest who would go to the cyprian’s defense. She didn’t hesitate.

“I know this woman,” she abruptly declared, and moved toward the barely breathing figure. When she leaned over to help her up, she saw the youthful man lying lifeless next to her. Lord Winton-Bowles . Apparently, the dissolute young buck had finally done himself in. His habit of drinking barely diluted absinthe before indulging in opium had finally caught up with him.

At that moment, a tall man in a bowler hat shoved his way roughly through the crowd of bystanders and pushed Margot aside. “Don’t touch anything,” he commanded, and rudely pulled the young woman from the bed before handing her off to a quiet, heavy-set man next to him. His rugged cohort threw her over his shoulder and moved briskly out toward the front entrance of the mansion. He parted the crowd with a glare as he went.

Margot followed at a discreet distance, formulating a wild, danger-fraught plan as she shadowed him. She couldn’t let the nameless young woman disappear into a magistrate’s court, or, God forbid, Old Bailey. She refused to let her vanish into the brutal London court system before Margot learned how she tasted, how she’d feel when she came apart in her arms.

P-W’s fine-looking, but short, footman followed Margot into a darkened study on the second floor after she’d offered to make him forget his duties for a few fleeting minutes. When she heard him close the door behind them, she turned and immediately dropped to her knees. Whilst he was engaged in hurriedly unbuttoning his falls, she pulled a poker from the nearby fireplace and gave him a swift, hard rap against the back of his knees. When he thudded to the floor like a sack of onions, she made short work of keeping him down with another smack on the back of his head.

With Margot’s fairly tall, slender body, she fit handily into his uniform. After rolling the still inert servant behind a settee by the fireplace and throwing her own clothing out a window, she managed to slip into the hall and down to the front entrance. The other guests’ raucous leave-taking in the wake of all the excitement of the Bow Street Runners arriving handily covered her leave-taking. No one noticed an odd footman wandering away from P-W’s small mansion in a copse of dark woods off the park.

She waited until the crowd had cleared a bit before circling back to the waiting carriages. It was ridiculously easy to convince the heavy-set Runner he was desperately needed back inside by his commanding officer. After that, she half-dragged, half-walked the now slightly rallying woman prisoner from the hack the Runners had rented and deposited her in Margot’s own carriage waiting on the other side of the park. Her driver, Germaine, barely flicked her a sideways look when she appeared dressed in a footman’s livery and assisting a limping woman into the carriage. Once they were inside, she rapped on the roof, and they were off.

Margot drew the scent of the half-asleep woman deeply into her nostrils and grinned. The stupidity of men never ceased to amaze her. Once the horses lurched forward, she pulled the exotic, golden young woman to lie against her shoulder.

When she sat up suddenly and mumbled, “Whersh thish?” Margot ran her hands through the glowing golden hair she’d been craving to touch ever since she’d first spied the mysterious, child-like siren.

“Shhhhh,” Margot soothed, and her companion slumped companionably back against her.