Chapter 3

Prospero checked his pocket watch and eyed the 223 Baker Street residence with grim resignation. A man a short ways ahead of him had already walked up the steps and knocked before being allowed inside. No doubt it was someone he'd have to compete with in order to be chosen for the study.

It was imperative that he obtain this position. Nicholas had offered money and a roof over his head, but Prospero had declined his friend's generous offer. He would not accept charity, not when he was still capable of earning a living, albeit briefly, even if it was in a highly unusual manner.

Most men with bloodlines and titles as old as the Earl of March would not have deigned to lower themselves like this. But Prospero had never been like his father, which was why the older man had been so quick to abandon him when society had falsely spun tales of his seduction and impregnation of an innocent woman and then killing her brother in an illegal duel.

Now he was preparing to apply for a study in order to be paid, and he wasn't as ashamed of that fact. He wasn't about to boast about it to anyone on the street, however. He would maintain some dignity. There were worse things in the world than letting some bespectacled man with a notebook and pen follow him about London and ask silly questions.

As he walked up the steps, he noticed a brass sign beside the door that read: Societas Rebellium Dominarum. He roughly translated it as the Society of Rebellious Ladies. That had to be a mistake. He glanced around the street, but it was fairly empty save for the passing of a hackney or the occasional person strolling along the pavement.

He walked up the steps and rapped the knocker on the door.

A butler answered, and Prospero gave a bow of his head. "I'm Lord March. I'm here for a two o'clock interview." He'd written to the address in the paper that morning to confirm if he needed an appointment or not and had received a message to be here at two o'clock.

When the butler's dubious expression didn't change, Prospero held up the advertisement he'd cut from the paper. "I'm here to interview for the study posted in the Morning Post yesterday."

"Ah yes. This way, sir. You may wait with the others." He escorted Prospero to a sitting room where a dozen chairs had been placed along the free spaces against the walls. Every chair but one in the corner of the room was occupied. All eyes fixed on Prospero as he crossed the room and took the last empty seat. Some sat reading newspapers in their best suits, while others stared idly at the walls. A handful of men held newspapers that they pretended to read, but it was clear they were waiting for something to happen. Prospero discovered what it was a minute later. A door opened down the hall, and a man stormed past the sitting room.

"Bloody mad, the lot of them!" the man snapped as he snatched his hat from a coat hook just outside the sitting room and slapped it on his head as he disappeared from view.

"Have a good day, sir," the butler said, following the man to the door.

"Good day? I think not!" The man's shout practically echoed through the townhouse.

After the front door slammed, the butler appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. "Who would like to go next?" he politely inquired of the room at large. A nervous man with wide eyes raised a trembling hand.

"I'll... go. Better to get it over with," he said to the room in an apparent attempt to bolster his courage.

Prospero hadn't expected this much interest in the study, and he had nothing to entertain himself with while he waited other than to study the men around him. Most seemed to be of a middling class, though a few were on the poorer end with worn suits and scuffed shoes.

He felt bad for those men in particular. He'd been in their position when he'd first arrived in France. If he hadn't met Madame Beauchance when he did and agreed to be her companion... He shuddered to think what might have happened. Finding employment in France wouldn't have been easy, not for an Englishman with only a middling understanding of the language. The tensions that existed between titled people and the commoners in France made it even more unlikely he would have found a place to work.

Prospero was still ruminating on the past when the nervous man who'd gone in for his interview flew down the hall like a banshee was on his heels. He didn't even stop to take his hat from the stand. The butler chased after him down the street to return it. Prospero stood at the window watching the entire encounter and chuckled.

One of the other applicants joined Prospero at the window. "What do you suppose they keep saying that upsets everyone?"

The poor butler was now making his return to the townhouse, his face red as he huffed after his unexpected mad dash.

"Damned if I know. It is a study, so perhaps the person conducting the interviews lacks a certain sensitivity?" Prospero guessed.

They returned to their seats, and one by one the men in the sitting room were admitted into the next room, only to leave in either a rage or some other form of distemper. The fellow who had spoken to Prospero at the window had been the second-to-last to be interviewed, and while he was not in a rush to leave, he clearly had a shocked look on his face.

"Well? What did he say?" Prospero asked.

The man shook his head. "I have no words for what I've just gone through, old boy. Good luck. You're going to need it." Then the man left him alone.

Prospero shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and waited for the butler to summon him. He felt strangely nervous, though he had no logical reason to be. When the servant arrived, he peered around the sitting room, noticing the absence of any other men.

"Are you the last, sir?" the butler asked him.

"Afraid so," Prospero replied. His curiosity and nerves were so strong now that he almost couldn't wait for the man to wave for him to follow.

"Very well. Please go to the room at the end of the hall and knock."

"Thank you." Prospero left the sitting room and walked down the hall to the door. He leaned in against it, listening, but heard only some papers rustling. After a moment, he raised his hand and knocked on the door.

"Enter," someone called out, their tone brusque and businesslike.

He opened the door and stepped inside; his lips parted as he surveyed perhaps the most chaotic room he'd ever seen, and that included the abode of one of his mistresses, Madame Barbier, who everyone had agreed was quite mad for collecting thousands of snuffboxes.

A pair of large aquariums sat on a short, waist-high bookshelf beside him. The first had a snake coiled up, asleep in a sandy environment. The second had a layer of rocks on the bottom, filled with water and weeds. A large turtle was perched on one of the higher rocks, basking in an errant sunbeam. Small brightly colored minnows swam beneath the weeds as a frog croaked somewhere in the aquarium's watery wilderness. The walls were papered with green plant patterns, making the room resemble a jungle, and flowers burst in bright colors from vases that dotted the surfaces of the desks and tables not covered with papers.

Half a dozen jars sat on the shelves, and Prospero spotted butterflies, beetles, and even sticklike creatures moving about in them.

Fascinating.

His gaze came to rest on the wonderfully rounded bottom of a woman in a red bustle gown who was bent over the desk in front of him, digging through papers as she muttered to herself. How he'd missed her amidst everything else he'd seen when he walked in was a mystery, because her backside was... spectacular. He'd always admired the way women looked in the current fashions, and this woman was no exception. However, as much as he wanted to stare at this woman's bottom for the rest of the day, he knew his interview was paramount.

He cleared his throat politely.

The woman in the red bustle gown straightened and turned to him. His throat ran dry at the sight of the most remarkable brown eyes he'd ever seen, framed by a tumble of wispy strands of honey-gold hair that was nothing short of enchanting. She wore the most peculiar pair of spectacles that had multiple lens that could be slid up and down in front of one of her eyes to help her see things up close, almost like a magnifying glass.

He didn't move, nor did he blink. He simply stared at the woman as she stared back at him, perhaps just as struck. He wasn't sure struck was the right word, but something inside him was different... like he'd collided with a celestial comet and all he saw were brightly spinning fragments of stars.

"I'm... um... here for the... interview." His voice deepened, turned gruff as he struggled to remember his manners. "Is the gentleman conducting the interview ready to see me?" He trailed off when he realized there was no one else in the room other than this woman who would have shamed Helen of Troy with her beauty. He certainly would have launched a thousand ships in her name if he had them in his possession.

The woman recovered herself far quicker than he did and removed her spectacles, setting them on the desk. "Please have a seat, sir. The interview shall begin shortly." She waved at a chair. He moved toward it and was about to sit down when he saw the large, long-haired feline curled up in it. Its fur was light gray and so dense it made the cat appear almost rotund. Its ears were oddly rounded and set low on the sides of its head. Black dots covered its forehead, and two black lines of fur zigzagged from its eyes to the corners of its jaw joints. The yellow irises of its eyes took him in with the lazy, disgruntled movement only cats were capable of.

"Is that cat... all right?" Prospero asked as he studied the sturdy-looking creature on the chair.

"Pallas? Oh yes, just give him a little shove from behind and he'll hop off," the woman said as she rounded the edge of the desk and sat down in the large leather chair facing him.

"Right. Come on then, chap, move along." He gave the cat a nudge, and with a low, angry meow, Pallas vacated his chair and Prospero sat down in his place.

"He doesn't look like other cats," Prospero noted. He was quite intrigued with the little beast.

She collected a stack of papers and tapped them on the desk to tidy them up. "He isn't. Pallas is a Pallas cat. He's actually wild and not domesticated, although he pretends to be when we ask him to."

"What exactly is a Pallas cat? I confess I haven't heard of such a thing before."

"Pallas cats were first discovered in 1776 by Peter Pallas when he was at Lake Baikal in Siberia. They live in high, cold elevations."

"Ah... so is this little chap your master's cat?" Prospero leaned back in his chair and watched the woman set out a fresh sheet of paper in front of her and write the date across the top.

"My master?" The woman chuckled, not even looking up at him from the paper she was writing on. "I'm afraid to disappoint you, but I have no master. Now, shall we begin?"

Prospero blinked. "I'm sorry, I don't quite...," he started and then halted as the plaque on the outside of the townhouse flashed across his mind. Societas Rebellium Dominarum... "The Society of Rebellious Ladies" wasn't a mistake after all.

The woman's lovely brown eyes held his gaze as she examined him the way she likely did the creatures in the jars upon the shelves.

"You are quicker than the others. They had to be told, and most didn't take the news well, as I'm sure you witnessed while waiting to be called in. Once I started in on them with my questions... Well, it was just a matter of time before each gentleman stormed out of here."

Prospero's pulse quickened as he sensed the very subtle challenge this beautiful woman had issued him.

"You are the one conducting the study," he said.

"Yes. Will that be a problem for you?" she asked. Those gorgeous brown eyes feigned innocence, but he was much cleverer than the men who'd come before him, and he saw that she was enjoying this far more than she was aware. No wonder the other men had stormed out in a huff. She'd likely said something to each of them to prick their fickle male pride. Well, she wouldn't find him so easy to ruffle, now that he understood the game they were playing. He took his time in answering her question.

"Am I bothered that a woman wishes to study a man? No, that poses no problem for me. But I suppose I would need some clarity as to the nature of exactly how you plan to conduct your study."

His calm reply seemed to startle her. He was rather enjoying this. It had been a while since he'd been around a woman who liked to spar in conversation, and he had a sense this woman had gone unchallenged for some time.

"Of course. Here is the contract I've prepared, which outlines my plan for the study and your requirements for participation." She slid a piece of paper across the desk to him. He picked it up and noticed the number of pounds per week had been left blank. He wanted to confirm how much he would be paid, but he couldn't reveal the financial desperation he was feeling, not yet.

"Take your time in reviewing it," she said. She seemed in no particular hurry as he read the terms carefully.

"The duration is two weeks...," he murmured to himself. "Observations will take place at various times of the day, both in public and in private. The observer will accompany the participant to locations such as clubs, restaurants, brothels—brothels?" He glanced up as he choked on the unexpected word.

"You don't plan to go to brothels?" she asked, those doe-brown eyes so cleverly innocent still as she watched him.

"No..." He reached for a pen on the desk. "May I make an adjustment?"

She nodded. He struck the word brothels out of the list and instead added gambling dens and racetracks before he showed her the additions. She studied them briefly and nodded.

"What about a high-end house of courtesans?"

He couldn't help the bemused grin he flashed her. "Are you quite determined to see a man take a woman to bed? Is that it?" Perhaps that was the real goal of her study, to see how a man beds a woman because she had no experience of her own to go by and wanted to learn about it in the way she felt most comfortable, as an observer. It made a certain bit of sense.

"I... no, it's not that I'm determined, it just seems to be something that men do often, and I can't understand the appeal. Is it simply the act of sex that draws you into those houses, or is it conversation with women who are being paid to treat you as if your opinions need no challenging and you are a king among men?"

Prospero understood at once what she was seeking to understand, and she'd in fact already answered her question. "It's quite a mix of both. Some men need to be seen as a king and have everyone listen to them when they speak and treat it as if it were a royal proclamation. Other men simply want sex, as you've said. But not all men are like either of those two cateogories—I certainly am not. I enjoy sex immensely, and I enjoy conversing with women on an equal ground and do not require them to sit and raptly listen to me ramble on."

When she made no reply to that, he resumed reading, but he soon halted once more. "Observer shall reside at participant's residence as required in order to study morning, evening, and sleeping rituals?" He was torn between shock and laughter, but his mirth died as he realized he could not host anyone at his house, let alone a woman.

"That is where many of the previous applicants chose to leave. Will this be a problem for you?" she asked. Her dark-gold brows arched, and Prospero caught himself staring at her mouth with an intensity that nearly erased all thoughts of why he'd come into this room in the first place.

"Well yes, actually. My living situation would be unsuitable for you."

"Because I'm a woman?"

"No... It's because I haven't had a single servant hired yet to look after anyone. The place is a mess of dust and neglect. It's not suitable for anyone at the moment." He repressed a shudder as he thought of how he'd tried in vain to sleep upon a sofa with a broken leg the previous night. It had kept tilting at odd angles whenever he restlessly shifted to get comfortable. The beds in the house were out of the question, between the dusty draperies and the rickety frames that threatened to collapse.

"Ah, I see..." She steepled her fingers and leaned forward, wisps of her golden hair brushing her cheeks as it escaped her elegant hairstyle. He had a sudden flash of her lying in bed beside him, their faces close upon a shared pillow as he tenderly brushed those strands with his fingers. Christ... One moment had done this to him? This woman had him in knots, and he didn't even know her name.

"If you are accepted, I would propose this... You will reside at my residence for the duration of the study."

Prospero's lips parted in shock. "You wish for me to live with you? But your husband wouldn't?—"

"I have no husband." Her reply was a little clipped, and he wondered if the subject was tender for her. Had she loved a man and been rejected? If she had, that man was a fool.

"But that's worse," he added grimly. "You do see how that's worse, don't you?" He couldn't stay with an unmarried woman at her home—that would blacken his reputation even further.

"No, I don't. I live with my father, and he won't mind in the least."

"You and he might not, but I can't speak for the rest of society." Prospero tried to ignore the stab of guilt he felt. He knew all too well how unfounded rumors of impropriety could change someone's life forever.

The woman chuckled, and he flinched at the unexpected sound. It was rich and intimate in his ears, and he hadn't expected the flash of raw lust it created in him.

"Society can hang itself." She pinned him with a confidant gaze and a smile that, for a woman, was surprisingly devilish. "I am twenty-six. I care not about marriage, nor my reputation as a marriageable woman. The only reputation I do care about is the one I am denied on the basis of my gender, and that is to be considered equal to a man intellectually. You needn't trouble yourself on my account."

Prospero couldn't understand this woman. She truly had no issue with a scoundrel living under her roof while she was unmarried?

"Your advertisement requested a gentleman for your study, but in some circles, I am not considered a gentleman. Perhaps you should know more about my background before you make that decision, Miss... I'm sorry, I don't even know your name."

"Elise Hamblin," she said formally with a nod of acknowledgment.

"Miss Hamblin, my name is Prospero Harrington." He waited for a reaction of shock and dismay, but none came. Instead, she simply wrote his name down on the contract that he had left on the desk.

"Miss Hamblin... Perhaps you don't understand. I am the Earl of March." Again he waited for some flash of recognition.

Her eyes fixed on him patiently. "Yes, that's correct. Should I add your title to the contract?"

"What? No, what I mean is, does my name mean nothing to you?"

"What else does your title mean other than that you possess an earldom?" She leaned back in her chair, watching him with eyes that he could not fully read. He supposed his only choice now was to come right out and say it.

"Twelve years ago, I was involved in an illegal duel in which the other man died. That has left a black cloud over my life ever since. I've only just returned from Paris and am trying to rebuild my life here in London. Given the scandal I've caused, I may never be able to fix my situation."

A small wave of relief swept through him at this chance to be honest with her. It calmed and centered him as he gave her his warning. "Associating with me may have consequences, Miss Hamblin. That is what I wish to say." He waited for the inevitable reaction of horror that any decent woman would have at the thought of the dire social consequences that would come with being caught in public with a man like him. But she merely leaned back in her chair, silent, her expression one of deep consideration rather than concern.

"Are you saying you do not wish to be part of this study?" she asked.

Again, her reaction baffled him. "Did you not hear what I just said?"

"Tell me, did you kill the man in the duel, or did he die afterward?" She arched one elegant dark-gold brow as she asked her question. "I have heard two versions of the story."

Prospero swallowed hard. That out of everything he had just said was what she wished to discuss? He let out a slow breath.

"It was after. I had been wounded by his shot and he grew deranged, insisting that I take my shot. I refused, and he charged me. We struggled, and he turned his own weapon upon himself out of desperation. I didn't want him to die, even at his own hand. So I reached for the weapon. I can't be sure what happened next, only that the weapon went off." The honesty that spilled out of him was unexplained. He'd never shared any of this with another soul except for Nicholas Hughes and Guy De Courcy.

"I will be honest with you, Lord March. When you sent a notice that you would appear for this interview, I did some due diligence, as I did on the other men who came to interview today. I am aware of the cloud that hangs over your head. But my understanding is that no charges were ever filed against you," she noted. "That means they either didn't believe you killed him or they had no proof."

"The other man's second, John Gower, told Scotland Yard that I was attacked from behind, which was true. He said that it appeared I was acting partially out of self-defense, and the Yard decided to believe me that I didn't try to kill Jackson, although Gower could not state outright who pulled the trigger. As you're aware, titled men and their sons are given some deference in the court of law. Without tangible proof of my killing the other man they could not bring charges, but I still wasn't welcome in England because dueling is illegal, so my departure was necessary." His voice softened a little as memories of that night came back to him so clearly.

Gower had caught up with him before he'd boarded a ship for France. God knows how Gower had found him, but the man had said he believed what Jackson had done in those final moments was without honor. He'd had his chance to fire, had struck and drawn blood, and it should have been the end. Then to turn a pistol on himself and try to force Prospero to action was unthinkable. He'd wished Prospero luck in France and said he'd report to the authorities the truth of what he'd witnessed in hopes that it would prevent charges from being brought. Nicholas had written to him a few months later saying that Scotland Yard had decided to put the case aside and leave the fault of Jackson's death undecided.

"Thank you. That is all I need to know," Miss Hamblin said.

Prospero was astonished at the woman's sense of efficiency. He'd expected far more questions.

"Now, about the value for your services as a participant. I was thinking a hundred pounds per week?" She changed the subject so quickly it took him a moment to collect his thoughts and catch up.

"The advertisement said the pay would be between fifty and seventy-five pounds per week," Prospero reminded her. He wasn't about to take more than another man would receive.

"Yes, but seeing as how your townhouse is across the street from mine in Grosvenor Square, I should like to have you use the money to put your property to rights and to hire staff again."

He narrowed his eyes as a flash of unexpected anger surged through him. "I will not take charity."

"Good. Because this isn't charity. Your home and its condition affects the property values of the other houses in the square, which includes my home. This is entirely a selfish decision."

Prospero stared at her. "You aren't like any woman I've ever met before."

She suddenly laughed, and the sound was so sensual, so real that it made him feel dizzy with delight. It was a sound a man adored to hear from a woman, both in bed and out.

"I should hope not. You know, that is the first compliment I've had all day. The other men I interviewed had plenty of things to say about me, but none so kind as that."

Prospero would have swung a fist at any man who'd dared to say anything uncharitable to a lady, especially this lady. She was a clever creature, a strong creature, but that didn't mean she deserved to put up with the nonsense of men who couldn't face a woman like her.

"I've noticed that weak men are often frightened by strong women," he said truthfully. He, on the other hand, preferred them.

"How right you are," she said, her face betraying a hint of sadness before she hid herself beneath a mask of politeness. "So, one hundred pounds per week, and I shall pay you the first week upfront." She counted out several banknotes and passed them to him. "We shall start this evening, if you don't mind. Be at my home at eight o'clock, and we shall have dinner and begin." She signed her name at the bottom of the contract and slid it over to him, along with her pen.

"So I passed your interview?"

"Indeed, and you are the only man to do so. Please don't disappoint me."

Prospero had the strangest feeling that his life was about to be turned upside down by this woman. It might be a mistake to agree to this, but he wasn't afraid to gamble since he had so little to lose, and something told him that this—whatever this was—might be worth it.

He picked up the pen and scrawled his name above the line designating the participant on the contract. Then he stood and started for the door, only to have her catch up with him and grab his arm.

"Your check... You forgot it," she said, pressing the bit of paper into his hand.

They were so close that he could see the depth of her light-brown eyes, and it made him want to curl his arms around her waist and haul her against his chest so he could kiss her. But he had a feeling that kisses were not the study this woman had in mind.

Still, he couldn't stop the thought that he wanted to study her the way she was to study him. He'd never met a woman that he couldn't charm. Most men believed women were all the same, cut from the same cloth, but he knew better.

Women were as different as the varieties of flowers on the earth. Some had soft petals. Some grew thorns and thistles. Some bloomed every year, while others had one great bloom before they retreated into the soil. Each was perfect in her own way.

Though he had much to be jaded about in his life, he never felt that way toward women. Even the widows in Paris who paid for his companionship, had been good ladies. They had been lonely, and he'd needed the money, so he'd given them himself in whatever ways they required. He'd done his best to treat them as well as he could, and they'd all been content. But he'd grown weary of that life, of being a man "owned" by someone in a transactional way.

The irony was that he was now facing a similar situation, being paid to perform. Only it wasn't about sex this time, which was a pity, given the beauty of the woman standing so close to him. He would have taken her to bed if she'd dared to give him but a hint that she wanted him.

Miss Hamblin cleared her throat.

"Er, yes. Thank you," he said softly and pocketed the check. "I shall see you tonight at eight o'clock." His gaze lingered upon her lips, then returned to her eyes, and he saw it, a flash of heat in her cheeks and in her gaze as she realized she'd been caught staring at his mouth too.

Perhaps this fiery woman was interested in him in more than just a scientific way...

If Miss Hamblin wanted to study a man, he would teach her everything she could ever want to know, including the art of seduction. Because it would be a crime to let this fascinating creature go without stealing at least one kiss.

"Perhaps we will end up teaching each other things, Miss Hamblin," he murmured to himself.

He exited the study, passing by opening door to the drawing room which was now empty of gentleman. He grinned like a Cheshire cat as he collected his hat and left 223 Baker Street.