Rosalie’s heart was sinking fast. Where was she in this labyrinth of passages and stairs? How on earth was she going to find her way to Dr Barnard’s office? She needed to see his precious private register, now. Because after tonight, returning to the Temple of Beauty just wasn’t an option.

      Coming to the aid of the Captain had been so stupid! She should have just quietly slipped past all those brawling men while she had the chance! But seeing him there, fighting all those ruffians by himself, had struck her as so unfair …

      You fool. He believes you to be a whore. And you’re out of your mind to waste precious moments even thinking about him, when Dr Barnard knows you write for The Scribbler, and has sent his men to scour the place for you!

      She stole along yet another dimly lit corridor. The sounds of fighting reverberated round the entire building. What an evening. What a place. And she wasn’t out of it yet, because someone else was coming towards her. Someone who reached her before she’d even had a chance to run.

      ‘So here you are, Athena,’ said the Captain softly. ‘I’ve a few questions for you.’

      Damn. She whipped round and went tearing back the way she’d come, but she heard him striding after her. Swinging past a corner, she pushed at a half-open door into a shadowy room where only a single candle spluttered in a sconce. Charging inside, she flattened herself against the wall, closed her eyes and uttered a fervent prayer that he’d go straight past.

      He didn’t. He came in. Rosalie dived past him for the still-open door, but he caught her easily by the wrist; when she opened her mouth to utter a scream, she found his other hand clamped firmly across it. She struggled. Yet at the touch of his palm, strong and warm against her lips, a strange tingling sensation started up in all her nerve endings.

      ‘Keep still,’ he hissed, kicking the door shut with one booted foot.

      She tried to bite his hand. He cursed. Then she froze. More heavy footsteps were coming down the corridor outside. Her chest was so tight she could scarcely breathe. Were they after the Captain? Or—her?

      The footsteps went past. She sagged, tension leaving her weak.

      The Captain was no longer holding her. But there was no chance of escape, because his broad-shouldered figure completely barred the way.

      Something else was just starting to dawn on her. This room was one of those rooms that gentlemen paid for. Heavy curtains shrouded the windows and a rather large and obvious velvet couch draped with a shabby silk counterpane filled one corner. The mingled odours of patchouli and tobacco filled the air, and the paintings on the walls—oh, Lord, those paintings …

      ‘I understand, Athena,’ he said softly, ‘that you’re in trouble.’

      ‘Trouble?’ Rosalie tried to laugh. ‘What nonsense. I simply work here, as you’ve seen …’

      He was watching her with inscrutable eyes. ‘Then why were you running? Why has Dr Barnard set his men at the main exits to stop you escaping?’

      As Sal had said. She sagged again.

      ‘Exactly,’ he went on tersely. ‘And just for the moment, you’re better off—believe it or not—in here. With me.’ He tilted his head to indicate the riotous noise of brawling on every floor of this tall house.

      The candles flickered, warningly. And oh, how their shadows highlighted the hard slant of his cheekbones, the wicked curl of his sensual mouth. Rosalie swallowed on the dryness in her throat. His dark eyes—she saw now they were velvet-brown, almost black—glowed with golden flecks as he gazed down at her. For a reason she couldn’t explain, a sudden lick of heat uncoiled from deep within and suffused every part of her body.

      In trouble. Oh, yes.

      Suddenly, like an eel—my God, thought Alec, this one’s used to fighting her own corner—she twisted from his grasp and ran for another door she’d spied at the far end of this whore’s boudoir. He lunged after her and caught her easily, this time trapping her by planting his hands firmly against the wall on either side of her shoulders. Her small breasts rose and fell in agitation; her amazing turquoise-blue eyes were wide with defiance.

      ‘Steady. Steady, Athena,’ warned Alec. ‘You know, I’d really like you to explain why you came to my aid in that brawl back there.’

      She hadn’t the faintest idea. She jerked her head up. ‘How about you explaining why you’re reduced to paying for your pleasure in a place like this?’

      And her lips spouted insults. Surprisingly eloquent insults, registered Alec. And the scent of her gleaming blonde hair was quite bewitching. She tried again to wriggle away, knocking a small painting off its hook on the wall so that it crashed to the floor. He stepped back, involuntarily; she swooped to the ground and picked it up.

      ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Look what you made me do, you fool! Luckily it’s not damaged …’

      Alec looked on, incredulous as she turned her back on him and very carefully replaced the painting on the wall. He said at last, ‘You know, you’re in all sorts of trouble, Athena. And you’re worried about—a painting?’

      She looked at him furiously. ‘It’s not just a painting, like the other cheap nonsense in here!’ The colour tinged her cheeks as she glanced round at the other works of art, whose content, Alec had noted, was decidedly bawdy. ‘Any fool can see that this painting is by Boucher and he’s famous for his watercolours! His paintings are masterpieces, though what one of them is doing in this dreadful place I cannot imagine!’

      Dreadful place. Alec noted that. ‘How, Athena, do you know about art?’

      Her hands were on her hips again; she tossed back her hair defiantly. ‘Why shouldn’t I know about art? Anyway, I’m not the only one in trouble—what did you do, to make those men attack you?’

      ‘I rather think,’ he said, ‘that I offended someone here tonight.’

      ‘If you go around speaking to people as you did to that man you called Stephen, then I’m not in the least surprised!’ she said tartly. ‘Why were you so rude to him?’

      He shrugged. ‘I don’t like him very much,’ he said. ‘And judging by the way you threw his money back in his face, you didn’t take to him either.’

      Rosalie caught her breath. Something she’d never experienced before surged warmly through her. She, normally so resistant to men and their various wiles, could not even look this one in the eyes—those dark, glinting eyes—without her stomach turning peculiarly upside down.

      Alone in a whore’s boudoir. With him.

      Outside beyond this room the mayhem continued, with the sounds of men brawling and furniture breaking, followed by the crashing jangle of Mrs Barnard’s piano as it went over on its side. Rosalie forced herself to meet his dark eyes. ‘Do you have this effect wherever you go?’

      ‘Not my fault. I told you, someone paid those louts to attack me. Though it’s true that I attract attention,’ he said. His sleepy eyes gazed, unblinking, into hers. ‘Yours, for example, Athena. Earlier I saw you watching me. From the stage.’

      Her heart juddered. ‘Watching you! Ridiculous! I’m short-sighted, I couldn’t possibly see that far!’

      ‘Strange, I