The Copeland Bride

Chapter One

Noelle Dorian was possibly the best pickpocket in Soho. This distinction was not given lightly and, indeed, had often been the subject of much debate in the illegal gin shops that flourished in the area.

"I'm tellin' ya, no one can 'old a candle to 'er." The speaker, a fat, balding man clad in a greasy smock, waved a tin mug in the air to punctuate his remarks. " 'Ighness is the best I ever seen, and, believe me, I seen 'em all in me time."

"No, there yer wrong." Absentmindedly his scabby-faced companion picked a louse from his hair and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger. "Oh, 'Ighness is good, that I'll not deny. But she can't match Gentleman Jack, the way 'e was afore the Runners caught 'im and seed 'im 'ang. She's too picky, she is. You watch 'er. She won't go right into the 'Aymarket after the toffs. 'Angs on the outskirts, so ter speak, where the toffs ain't as likely ter be and where pockets ain't as well lined with the ready."

"Aye, yer may be right there, me friend. No doubt but wot Gentleman Jack took in more than she does, but 'e wasn't as smart as 'Ighness, not by 'alf." The fat man pounded one filth-encrusted fist on the table. "Blimey! I never seen anything like the way she decks 'erself out like a whore and swings 'er arse up ter some unsuspectin' bloke! Except fer 'er tits, she's plain as a pikestaff, but I don't mind tellin' yer, when she leans over and they 'ang out of the top of that green dress…"

At this point the speaker abruptly stopped and pulled a much- abused handkerchief out of his pocket to mop a film of sweat that had suddenly appeared on his brow.

"Ha!" his companion hooted. "Gettin' yerself all 'ot over the 'Ighness's tits, are ya? A bleedin' lot of good it'll do ya. Fer all that she looks like a whore, y a can bet there's not a man 'as ever touched 'er. Even if she did let ya near 'er, she'd treat yer same as th'others. Rub 'erself against yer while she talks real quiet like about 'ow she wants to meet ya at the Cock and Pheasant fer a good tumble. All the while goin' through yer pockets and takin' what she pleases."

"The Cock and Pheasant!" The fat man was so overcome with merriment, he choked on the cheap gin he had been swilling, spraying it in droplets over his companion as he tried to catch his breath. Recovering himself, he refilled his mug and continued. " 'Ow many times 'ave we 'ad one of them poor blokes come up ter us axin' us where the Cock and Pheasant might be?"

"Last one that axed me," his companion responded, once more digging his fingers into his scalp, "I tole 'im ter try Drury Lane, I did. Blimey if I was gonna be the one ter tell 'im there weren't no Cock and Pheasant anywhere and 'e'd better check 'is pockets."

At that very moment the subject of the gin shop discussion was huddled in a dark, peeling doorway near Glasshouse Street, trying to find some protection from the night's drizzle. Although she was near the Hay market, as the gin drinkers had predicted, she had not ventured out into the actual bustle of that famous center of London's nightlife, for the memory of Sweeney Pope's tragic fate had never left her. As a pickpocket, the risks were great enough without hobnobbing with the upper classes. Besides, the blue devils, as the members of the newly created police force were called, were vigilant about protecting the ton.

Underneath her damp, shabby cloak Noelle wore a once-elegant emerald-green satin gown. The material was now faded and badly stained under the arms and across the skirt, the black lace trim tattered at the deep rim of the bodice. In some places it was evident that the tired seams of the garment had split open. Although Noelle had sewn them together again, the uneven stitches and bright yellow thread offered mute testimony to her ineptness as a seamstress.

Even though she was not quite eighteen, she looked ten years older. The tiny elfin face that Daisy had loved so much was smeared with scarlet rouge; the topaz eyes, no longer luminous, were dim and darkly outlined with kohl. She was tall but excruciatingly thin, with hollow cheeks and a dirty neck. Her complexion was almost cadaverous, an effect that was heightened by her unfortunate hair. In an attempt to keep it free of vermin, she had cropped it just below her earlobes. Since she had no mirror and only a knife to do the cutting, it was ragged and uneven. It was also orange. Not a deep auburn or a warm chestnut, but a hue that most closely resembled a string of withered carrots. When she had first made up her mind to pose as a prostitute, she had decided to alter her hair to make herself look older. But repeated use of the unstable dyes had resulted in a noxious frizz that was now sorrowfully decorated with a single, limp ostrich plume.

Her appearance was so unappealing that at first glance it was difficult to tell how posing as a whore had helped her become such a successful pickpocket. But a more careful assessment revealed a certain sensuousness about the mouth, an appealing huskiness of voice, and, of course, pushing themselves above the top of her plunging neckline, the swelling breasts that had become an object of speculation among men and boys throughout Soho. All of these qualities hinted at the great beauty that poverty had stolen from Noelle Dorian.

At the moment Noelle was trying to decide whether she should stick it out a bit longer, in the hopes that the drizzle would let up, or return to her room. Just a little longer, she decided, for the truth was she was short of cash to pay the rent for her lodgings. She had been careless not to have watched her pennies better; now she stood in danger of losing her privacy, and she couldn't bear that. The room was tiny and squalid, but at least it was not in a cellar and she was alone.

She grimaced as she thought of the years after Daisy's death and the damp hovel she had been forced to share with as many as fifteen inhabitants crowded together at one time. Most were orphans like herself, some younger and some older. She remembered twelve-year-old Meg Watkins standing guard over her infant to keep the rats from feeding off his tiny body while he slept. And Bardy, the old man who had befriended them, guarding their meager possessions while they were out scrounging for food. He was nearly blind now, but he still lived in the hotel, and Noelle saw him as often as she could manage.

She had come up in the world since those early days. Not far, but enough to have her own room and a bit of food. And there's nobody who's going to make me give that up easily, she told herself as she peered down the narrow street in search of a likely mark. She knew she should be better off than she was, but she couldn't seem to set any money by. She was an easy touch. She smiled to herself as she thought of the little street urchins who now lived in the hovel from which she had escaped. Their bellies were fuller than hers had been because of the money she slipped Bardy to feed them.

At the sound of wooden wheels clattering on the cobblestones, Noelle looked up to see Billy the ragman approaching, pushing his grumbling cart down the deserted alley. She sighed, knowing the inevitability of what was coming.

"Well, if it ain't 'Ighness 'erself." He doffed his muddy cap and bowed mockingly. "And wot would 'Er 'Ighness be doin' so far from Buckingham 'ouse on a night like this? King Willie decide 'e don't want a pickpocket in 'is bed? Or did 'e just get tired of stickin' it ter a block of ice?"

Noelle stared stonily past him.

"Won't talk ter the likes o' me?" He abandoned his pushcart and shuffled up to her. "Someday, 'Ighness," he said, leering, revealing the rotted stubs of his front teeth, "yer gonna find out that yer ain't no different from the rest of us. Yer 'igh and mighty airs don't mean nothin.' "

Noelle leveled a cold glance at him. "Leave me alone," she retorted, clipping each word precisely.

Billy thrust his face inches from hers. She recoiled from his foul breath.

"I seen the way yer strut up ter them toffs, shakin' yer tits at 'em, leadin' 'em on so's all they think about's the fun they're gonna 'ave 'tween yer legs." He fingered himself obscenely through his filthy trousers. " 'Ow 'bout rubbin' up 'gainst old Billy, 'Ighness?" He stuck out one clawlike hand and reached toward her breast.

Noelle leaped back from him, pulling a lethal-looking knife from her pocket. She jabbed it in the air, stopping barely an inch from Billy's throat. "Get away from me, Billy, before I take a slice out of your filthy face." Her voice was menacing; her face a mask of determination.

He leaped back angrily. "God damn yer, bitch. One of these days somebody's gonna get yer, and ya won't soon forget it." A thin trail of spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth.

"Get away from me, you scum, or I'll fix you so you'll never put your dirty hands on another woman!"

Something in Noelle's face caused Billy to retreat hastily to his cart. He'd pushed the Highness too far. He thought of Jim Wheeler with the jagged red scar across his cheek. Others had found out too well what happened when they tangled with her. Muttering under his breath, he hobbled quickly down the alley, the cart creaking ominously at its unaccustomed speed.

Noelle was trembling as she slipped the sharp knife into the top of her boot. How much longer could she hold out against Billy and the others? She knew she was playing a dangerous game. Noelle shuddered as she watched two old hags with their leering faces and thick lips pass her. They'd been young once, but they'd sold their youth for a few pence and then spent the takings on bad gin.

How could they sell their bodies? Nothing, not even starvation, was as horrible as that. The memories of the men who had abused Daisy crowded unbidden into her mind. She had found her own way to get even with them, she thought grimly. It was not accidental that she had decided to pose as a prostitute. Each time she left a man lusting hungrily after her but ignorant of his empty pockets, she felt as though she had, in a small way, avenged Daisy's death.

The sound of deep laughter caught Noelle's attention. At the end of the narrow alley two men stood, caught in the soft yellow glow from the lone streetlamp. Noelle's breath quickened. She knew by their dress that they were gentlemen. What were they doing so far from the pleasures of the Haymarket?

She thought carefully. One of the reasons she was successful was that she did not take chances. Toffs were bad luck; she had made it a rule to stay away from them. Only once had she broken that rule, but he had been old and feeble. She had also been well rewarded, she reminded herself. The pockets of the upper classes were filled with silver. Expensive watches rested at the ends of golden fobs. Their silk handkerchiefs alone could fetch as much as a shilling from the pawnbrokers in Drury Lane.

Of course there were problems. Many of these gentlemen now carried paper bank notes in their pockets instead of silver. She bit thoughtfully at her bottom lip. Trying to use one of these bank notes was tricky. None of the street peddlers would take them, and despite the upper-class accent she had struggled so hard to maintain, she would have no luck passing the paper on to a more respectable merchant without raising suspicion. Of course, she could always sell the notes to the pawnbroker, but her practical nature rebelled at that because the amount received for the notes was always significantly less than their face value. Silently she laughed at herself. Here she was worrying about getting rid of the paper money before she even had it.

She looked again at the two men. Although she couldn't see them clearly, she sensed they were young. She needed money so badly, she just might risk it. I've been lucky so far, she reminded herself-but no, that wasn't quite true. It hadn't just been luck; she had been careful. She had not taken foolish chances. And setting upon two rich young gentlemen was foolish. She stood there indecisively, then reluctantly began to turn away just as the shorter of the two stumbled, barely saving himself from falling onto the muddy cobblestones.

Why, he's drunk, Noelle thought, her interest caught anew. That does change the odds a bit, doesn't it?

Sidestepping a pile of rotting garbage, she moved from the doorway that had provided such poor protection from the drizzle and stealthily crept closer to the men, finally concealing herself in a small recess between two buildings.

The shorter of the two turned. He had a boyish face with full cheeks and small merry eyes. Unruly sandy hair peeked out from under a tall beaver hat.

"Quinn, old boy," he addressed his companion, "sorry to be such a deuced poor guide, but I'm afraid I've got us lost." He punctuated this pronouncement with a loud hiccup. "Bradley's Hotel should have been right here." Gesturing vaguely into the night air. he took a final swallow from the bottle he held before passing it on to his companion.

"Don't worry, Tom." His companion's voice was deep and strong, the American accent unfamiliar to Noelle. "At least we'll both be spared an unpleasant evening with Simon." He drank deeply from the bottle.

Noelle strained to see the face of the speaker, the man called Quinn, but he remained turned away from her. He was even taller than she had first imagined. Powerful shoulders thrust against the seams of his coat. He was hatless, and the raindrops in his raven-black hair sparkled in the glow of the streetlamp.

"Come now, Quinn. your father's not a bad sort," Thomas expostulated, lowering himself unsteadily onto an adjacent doorstep. "The old boy could have left you home in America to run the company. Instead you're here, renewing our schoolboy friendship and enjoying London's elegant nightlife." He laughed uproariously at the irony of his own poor joke.

"I wish to God he had," Quinn replied sourly, handing the bottle back to Thomas. "All he's done these past three months is lecture me about my unsuitability to be the heir of Copeland and Peale."

Noelle's ears picked up at this reference. She had no idea that Copeland and Peale was a small but prestigious builder of oceangoing ships; she only knew that such an imposing name undoubtedly meant money.

If I could just see his face, she thought. I've no intention of taking him on cold sober. She shuddered slightly as she again observed his broad, powerful shoulders.

Quinn continued bitterly, "My God, I think he's gone crazy. He can't seem to look to the future. He's going to ruin Copeland and Peale with his damned pig-headed stubbornness."

Privately Thomas thought Simon wasn't the only stubborn one, but he wisely kept this opinion to himself.

"He refuses to put up any capital for experimentation. The initial studies I've done on hull shape are staggering, but they need to be extended. We could revolutionize the China trade, but Simon refuses to take them seriously. Even conservatively, Tom, Copeland and Peale ships could make the New York to Canton run in one hundred and ten days and be back in less than ninety."

"Ninety days?" Tom didn't bother to hide his incredulity. "It's impossible! I don't blame Simon for being skeptical."

"No, it's not impossible," Quinn insisted. "With some radical hull revisions, our ships will do ten knots or better. Unfortunately, I'm not the only one doing experiments with hull shapes. If Copeland and Peale isn't to be hopelessly outdated in fifteen years, we need to start now-more hull experiments, a model, and then a ship. I don't know how Simon can be so blind. I've a mind to get out now and start on my own. He's going to bankrupt us, the bastard, or, at the very least, turn us into second-rate shipbuilders."

Thomas's eyes widened at the venom in Quinn's tone. "Now, now, old boy, have another drink. With more of this good rum in you, things won't seem so bad."

As Quinn turned to take it, the full glow of the streetlamp fell on his rugged face. Noelle drew in her breath sharply. The American was young, in his mid- to late twenties, and incredibly handsome, but it was an unconventionally rugged handsomeness, foreign to Englishmen. His skin was bronzed. The black hair Noelle had observed earlier tumbled over a broad forehead. His cheekbones were high; his nose strong, narrow at the bridge; and the line of his jaw clean and hard. Dominating all was a pair of piercing eyes, black as chipped onyx.

The tiny hairs at the back of her neck prickled. Her instincts, finely honed from living by her wits for so long, warned her that this was not a man with whom to trifle.

"At least Simon should be pleased at the way you've been received socially. With half the hopeful mothers in London pushing their unmarried daughters at you, you've become the catch of the season," Thomas remarked, not without envy.

Noelle looked at Quinn more sharply. She tried to imagine why rich ladies with beautiful clothes and plenty to eat would possibly want to marry this menacing stranger. He was undoubtedly handsome, but couldn't they sense the savagery in him? Wives were property, owned by their husbands. They would have to be daft to put themselves under this man's control.

"Believe me, Thomas, it's not something I'd wish on my worst enemy!" Quinn took a thin cheroot from his pocket and lit it. "All those overdressed, overstuffed matrons pushing their whey-faced daughters at me. It's enough to turn a man against women!"

"By Jove!" Thomas hooted. "Quinn Copeland a misogynist! That'll never wash, old boy. No, from what I've seen, you're a marked man, marked for the parson's mousetrap!"

"Shut up, Tom," Quinn growled. He pulled deeply from the bottle, swallowing the rum as though it were water.

Thomas grinned, enjoying Quinn's discomfort. "You can tell me. Which one of our high-steppers are you going to choose as your bride?"

"Dammit, Tom, not you too!"

"Oh, Simon's been at you, has he?".

"For years," Quinn responded, leaning indolently against the lamppost, the smoke from his cheroot curling around his black hair. "At one point he told me he was no longer requesting that I marry, he was ordering it."

"That's rather heavy-handed, even for Simon, isn't it?"

"I thought so," Quinn replied sardonically.

Even in his befuddled state, Thomas sensed there was more to the breach between Simon and his headstrong son than disagreements over either the management of Copeland and Peale or Quinn's marital status. "If he wants a Copeland bride so much, why doesn't he marry again himself?"

"You miss the point, Tom. Simon, like many Americans, is a self-made man. He rose from being a carpenter's apprentice when he was thirteen to one of the greatest shipbuilders in the world at forty. Now, at fifty, he wants to forget that he was ever a carpenter's apprentice. He wants the name Copeland to be as respected as Winthrop or Livingston or Franklin. Although he won't admit it, he has visions of a Copeland dynasty, oldest son to oldest son. But for this dynasty, he needs a woman. Not any woman, naturally. Only someone of impeccable breeding can be the next Copeland bride." Quinn flicked the last of the cheroot into a puddle where it hissed sibilantly as it went out. "Of course, he also believes the right wife will settle me down and make me respectable."

Thomas snickered, his words beginning to slur together. "See it all now. Quinn Copeland, august citizen, pillar of the church, cornerstone of the Copeland dynasty, arrives home promptly at six o'clock. Kisses the pudding-faced wife at the door."

"Pinches the maid," Quinn interjected, grinning lecherously.

"God's life, no, man!" Thomas exclaimed with mock horror. "Not in front of the children!"

"All six of them," Quinn said piously.

"Six! You forgot the twins!"

"Eight?" Quinn roared, pitching the now-empty bottle into the overflowing gutter. "Damn it, Thomas Sully, you've gone too far!"

With an unsuccessful attempt at dignity, Thomas raised himself from the stoop. "I'm not the one who went too far. She's your potato-faced wife!"

"You said pudding-faced. Make up your mind!"

"Pudding, potato-either way you'll only be able to make love to her with her nightgown covering her ugly face!"

"You're talking about my wife, you bastard," Quinn bellowed as he playfully cuffed his already staggering companion.

Noelle observed the two of them trading friendly obscenities and throwing harmless punches at each other. They were oblivious to the damage the drizzle was inflicting on their beautifully tailored garments. Could feed a family of six for a year on what those clothes must have cost, she thought. The Englishman was as drunk as a blacksmith on payday.

She studied the American again, his head thrown back in laughter, rain glistening on his chiseled face. Her uneasiness would not leave her. Then she thought of the solitary room she desperately wanted to keep and the money she needed to do so.

Noelle made up her mind. She would give the American wide berth; Thomas Sully was her mark.

Drawing two breaths to calm herself, she stepped out of her hiding place and walked toward them, wiggling her scrawny hips provocatively and smiling seductively in perfect imitation of the women she had watched so often.

The two men, arms thrown around each other's shoulders, had broken into a lively, if somewhat bawdy tune:

"What is a friar wi' a bald head?

A staff to beat a cuckold dead?

What is a gun that shoots point blank,

And hits between a maiden's flank?"

They broke off their song as Noelle approached them, stopping several feet in front of Thomas. Resting her hands brazenly on her narrow hips, she smiled boldly at him.

"Evenin', Guv'nor. 'Ow 'bout a bit of fun?" She broadened her vowels and dropped her consonants with ease, a practice she had astutely adopted so that she did not stand out from the rest of the prostitutes.

"Well, well," Thomas slurred drunkenly, "if it isn't one of London's fairest flowers, a fashionable impure, gracing us with her presence." He doffed his tall beaver hat and bowed deeply in front of her. The movement would have been gallant had he not spoiled it by belching loudly at its conclusion.

Noelle giggled coquettishly. "Gor, sir, ain't you the one." Looping one of her arms through his, she moved closer to him, preparing to pick her moment carefully. He smelled of tobacco and rum, a not altogether unpleasant combination. Deliberately she pressed her body next to his, tilting her shoulders forward to reveal more of her breasts.

Looking at him through partially closed lids, she whispered seductively, "Yer a fine lookin' cove, y'are, Guv."

Quinn snorted with amusement.

"What the devil are you laughing at?" Thomas challenged, shooting Quinn a superior glance. "This young lady is undoubtedly one of the more experienced judges of men in London."

"I don't doubt she is experienced, Tom," Quinn retorted, a smile playing lazily at the corners of his lips, "but I question how discerning she is."

Noelle felt a small stab of shame at their jests. What do you expect? she chided herself. You want them to believe the worst.

The American's eyes raked over her impersonally, taking in the tawdry ostrich plume stuck in her frizzled hair, the painted cheeks, and her partially exposed breasts.

Noelle's face burned under his gaze. I must ignore him, she told herself; do what I'm here to do and get away quick as I can.

She squeezed Thomas's arm to distract him. "Oh, ain't you the strong one. There are them that says yer can tell a lot 'bout a man from the size of 'is arms."

She flirted outrageously as, with lightning speed and a feather touch, she extracted a heavy watch from his pocket and unobtrusively slid it into one of the large pockets she had sewn into her gown for just such a purpose. Keeping her eyes on Thomas, she continued her charade, all the while looking for any sign that he was aware of what had happened. He was grinning drunkenly at her, obviously enjoying her flattery. Conscious of the comfortable weight of the watch deep in her pocket, Noelle began to feel easier about the encounter. Still, she cautioned herself, she must do nothing to raise his suspicions.

"I can tell yer a flash cove with the 'igh-flyers, I can," Noelle bantered, tickling his lapel with her forefinger. "I don't mind sayin' I've earned my fair share of compliments too, ducks." Her pink tongue flickered across her vermilion lips. "Let me show yer wot I mean."

Eyeing her full breasts, Thomas was momentarily tempted, but the sight of her sunken cheeks and garishly painted face immediately brought him back to his senses.

"My dear lady, you tempt me beyond belief. If I only had the time, I would be delighted to partake of the pleasure you offer." Ever the gentleman, he tipped his hat to her.

Noelle giggled, whether from amusement or relief, even she could not have said. "Yer a rare one, Guv'nor, y'are." She waved three fingers coyly at him in farewell. "Anytime yer want me, just look fer me at the Cock and Pheasant."

Turning her back on the two men, she sauntered away, swinging her hips gaily. Her spirits leaped as she furtively caressed the smooth, solid object lodged deeply in her pocket. She had done it! This watch would do more than pay her rent. She could buy a new dress, perhaps even a hat.

Absorbed in her reflections, she was unaware of the footsteps approaching her until it was too late. Fingers like steel talons bit painfully into the thin flesh of her emaciated arms, jerking her to a stop. The sodden ostrich plume flew from her hair and landed in a rain-swollen ditch. Her heart racing, she spun around to find the American staring coldly, his eyes frozen black flints.

"Not so fast."

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir?" she stammered.

Effortlessly he pushed her against the damp stone wall behind her, cutting off any avenue of escape. Now his large hands rested lightly on her shoulders, but she was not deceived. She knew that her slightest movement would once again bring the pain of those steely fingers biting into her tender flesh.

"Well?"

Gathering her scattered wits, she kept her voice steady. "Gor, sir, yer needn't be so rough. If yer was wantin' me, just tell me so." She tried to smile coquettishly. "Say 'alf an hour at the Cock and Pheasant?"

"That's not what I'm after, and you know it."

Thomas, gasping in astonishment at Quinn's actions, hurried to catch up with them. "I say, Quinn, what's this about?"

Without taking his eyes from her, the American ran his hands down her sides to her waist.

She began to struggle. " 'Ere, now, don't you be touchin' me like that."

The hands went back to her shoulders and then moved to the top of her bodice. She gasped as he cupped her breasts, and her struggles became more frantic. With his forearm, he pinned her against the wall so he could continue his leisurely search of her body. Finally he found what he wanted. Thrusting his hand into the hidden pocket, he pulled out the gold watch and dangled it accusingly in the air inches from Noelle's stricken face.

"In addition to being a whore, she seems to be a first-rate pickpocket."

"Good God!" Thomas was unable to conceal his embarrassment. "She played me for a fool."

Quinn handed Thomas his watch, then looked at Noelle impersonally. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Tom. She's an accomplished thief. I've seen this trick pulled before, but even at that, I almost missed it. She's probably been at this game for years."

Noelle stood frozen in a blind, nameless panic. What a fool she had been! She had betrayed herself by not following her instincts. At her first sight of the American, she had known he presented too great a risk. "One of these days somebody's gonna get yer and ya won't soon forget it." Billy the ragman's prophetic words came back to her.

Suddenly she remembered the knife tucked safely in her boot, the one place the American's burning hands had not searched. How could she get it out? She looked up at the two men, her eyes wide and pleading.

"Please, 'elp me. I'm feelin' so sick. I feel like I…" Closing her eyes, she fell to the ground, being careful to tuck her boot under her full skirts as she landed.

"Dash it, man. What a bloody pickle this is turning into! Leave her here so we can continue our drinking in a more congenial atmosphere." Thomas began to walk away.

"Not so fast, Tom," Quinn interrupted. He looked down at the still form at his feet. The side of her face was pressed against the edge of a rain-swollen pothole; the spiked ends of her hair dipped into the muddy depression. He felt a flash of pity for the sorry Creature and looked around for a drier place to deposit her. He spotted a doorway protected by an overhang.

Through half-closed eyes, Noelle saw the American begin to lean over her. Before he could touch her, she tore the precious knife from her boot, leaped nimbly to her feet, and thrust it menacingly in front of her.

"Not one step farther, or I'll cut out yer cold-blooded 'eart, I will, and dangle it in front of yer scurvy face!"

"I don't think so." He gave her an odd, twisted smile, his momentary pity forgotten. Slowly he began to circle her, his arms flexed at his sides.

She backed away, holding the knife up like a talisman to protect her from evil. She looked like a small animal fighting for survival: hair in wild disarray, enormous eyes shooting murderous sparks, scarlet mouth compressed with determination.

Relentlessly he advanced on her, his weight easily balanced on the balls of his feet.

Was he insane? she wondered frantically. She had a knife, and he was unarmed, yet he seemed to have no fear. And then, as her heel touched something solid, she knew why. He had backed her into a wall!

Insane with rage, she lunged at him, ready to thrust the knife into his mocking face. But her upraised arm presented an easy target. With one swift motion he grabbed her wrist and twisted it mercilessly. Yelping with pain, her hand involuntarily opened.

Incredulously she watched the knife arch through the air and then tumble downward. The clatter of metal on cobblestones signaled her defeat. With disbelief she stared at it, its shiny blade already dulled by the muddy raindrops.

Uproarious laughter shattered the moment. Noelle's eyes flew to Thomas. He was doubled over, tears of drunken merriment streaming down his red face.

"Half the bucks in London wouldn't dare cross you," he guffawed, gasping for air, "but this little strumpet, not weighing much more than seven stone, has the unmitigated gall to take you on all by herself." He slapped his knees, jovially. "What a great story this is going to make at Watier's."

Quinn flashed his companion a crooked smile as he tightened his grip on Noelle's arm. "Don't be so quick with your tales, Tom. I might be forced to share your experience. I'm sure everyone will enjoy hearing how she relieved you of your watch."

As he spoke he reached down and picked up the knife. Noelle wanted to weep with frustration and fury as she watched it disappear into his pocket.

"Aha! I daresay you're right." Thomas chuckled. "Still, it might be worth the embarrassment. How she went after you! She was just as determined to escape from you as you have been to escape all those unmarried females. You're two of a kind!"

'The devil we are!" Quinn retorted.

"Of course you are. You can't deny that. You're both totally unprincipled in your dealings with the opposite sex. You two deserve each other." Thomas smiled mischievously. "Now, she'd be a fitting bride for you."

"In a pig's eye, you bastard!" Quinn grinned, amused at his friend's baiting.

"I can see her now on your wedding day: a beautiful gown, a lovely bouquet, and a knife held between her teeth." They both roared with laughter. "And the father of the groom beaming with delight to see his only son and heir so well married."

Quinn's laughter froze. Slowly a look of cold calculation crossed his face, and with it, a tremor of fear and apprehension shot through Noelle.

"That's it," Quinn said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's the answer. I'm going to marry her."

Noelle stared at him in stunned disbelief.

"You're what?" Thomas cried.

"Don't you see, Tom?" Quinn explained, his excitement growing. "It's the perfect answer. I'm going to many her."

"Are you insane?" Thomas shouted. "She's a whore!"

"Of course she is. That's the point." Still maintaining his iron grip on Noelle's thin arm, he slapped Thomas exuberantly across his shoulders with the other hand. "Picture Simon's face when I introduce him to my wife, the Copeland bride on whom he had pinned his hopes. It's the perfect revenge… for so many things."

A shadow crossed his features, and Noelle shuddered with dreadful premonition.

"By Jove, I think you're in earnest."

"Of course I am. Really, Tom," Quinn added with mock seriousness, "I'm disappointed in you. Marriage is no joking matter."

"Damn, man, it won't serve. You could have any of a dozen beauties. Why in the name of all that's holy do you want to stick yourself with a whore for a wife?"

"Use your head, Tom. If I married one of those blue bloods, I'd be gratifying Simon's fondest wish, and I have no intention of doing that or of spending the rest of my life shackled to one woman."

Thomas looked at Quinn blankly.

"Don't you understand, Tom? With this little trollop as my wife, I escape all of that. Look at her! Do you think Simon would chance anyone's discovering she's his daughter-in-law or give me an argument about packing her off?" He smiled sardonically. "I'll be legally married without the burden of a wife. And there'll be nothing Simon can do about it."

"Damnation, Quinn, don't be a fool!" Thomas exploded. "He would have the marriage annulled within a week."

"Yes"-Quinn hesitated thoughtfully-"that's a problem. The weak link in a perfect arrangement. The marriage has to be binding."

He turned to Noelle, distaste etched clearly on his face at the sight of her dirty neck and cropped hair, now releasing great, muddy droplets from the ends of the carrot strands. "I'm going to ask you a question, and God help you if you lie to me. I want the truth, do you understand?"

Noelle nodded mutely, but inside she was almost ill with the force of her anger and her fear. Why couldn't she fight this man? How had she let herself be drawn into this situation?

His eyes, dark and ominous, bored into her. "Are you diseased?"

She looked at him without comprehension.

"Diseased, girl! Do you have the French pox?"

Her face reddened with humiliation. She began to stutter an indignant denial, then stopped herself abruptly and gave him a wide, cunning smile. "Yes, sir, that I am. Cruelly diseased."

Before she knew what had happened he was shaking her viciously. "Don't toy with me. I demand the truth."

At the sight of the stubborn set of her jaw, he released her. "Never mind. You've already answered my question. She's not diseased, Tom, and, at least, her teeth are good, so, somehow, I'll consummate the marriage. Then Simon will have no way of annulling it without my consent. And you can be sure I'll never give him that."

Grinning, Thomas shook his head in disbelief and then grabbed Quinn's hand and began to pump it. "I'm on, old boy. Damnation! Of all the pranks we've pulled together, this one is the topper!"

Noelle stared at them incredulously. The American expected her to marry him, to give her body to him! She was livid with rage, directed as much at herself as it was at him. Enough of standing here like a ninnyhammer while he tried to take over her life!

"You bastard!" she shrieked. "Who the bloody 'ell do you think you are, telling me what to do. Nobody tells me anything, do you 'ear? And I wouldn't marry you if you was the friggin' King of England!"

Thomas looked at Quinn doubtfully. "Are you quite sure, old boy? I know it seems a good scheme, but I think it's only fair for me to point out that we're both rather drunk. Besides, she seems a bit-rough around the edges."

"Rough around the edges!" Quinn hooted with laughter. "Only you, Tom, could put it so tactfully. But the lady does seem to need some courting."

Taking Noelle firmly by the arm, he led her struggling form to the stoop of an apothecary shop closed for the night. "Sit here." Without giving her a chance to refuse, he pushed her down onto the step.

Although Noelle's fear was rapidly overcoming her anger, she was determined not to let him see how he intimidated her. Gathering her dignity about her like a suit of armor, she sat stiffly, almost primly. He hovered over her, resting one elegantly booted leg next to her skirts.

"Listen to me," he began, not ungently. "This marriage can only be to your advantage. I'll pay you well. All I'm asking from you is twenty-four hours of your time to go through the wedding ceremony and then spend the night performing your wifely duty." He lifted one eyebrow wryly. "You should be good at that."

Despite her fury at his effrontery, Noelle instinctively clung to the protective anonymity of the accent of the streets as she ranted at him through clenched teeth. "I won't do it, and I don't want yer bloody money. Nobody tells me wot to do, least of all someone like you!"

"What possible objection can you have?" Quinn was genuinely astonished by her refusal. He was offering her an opportunity that would change her whole life for the better. She would make more money with this one night's work than she'd ever dreamed possible.

But Noelle did not care if he offered her a royal fortune; the memories he brought back of the men who had used Daisy were too terrifying. No money, no comfort, no security, no luxuries, were worth submitting her body to this barbaric man.

"I don't 'ave to give you my reason. Yer nothin' to me, nothin', do you 'ear?" In final defiance she spat at him, hitting him full in the face.

As soon as she had done it she regretted her action. She could almost see the cold fury flowing through his body. Instinctively she braced herself, waiting for his attack.

His eyes raked her face mercilessly. "That was a mistake." Slowly and deliberately he removed his handkerchief and wiped off the spittle. "You no longer have any choice in the matter. Unless you want to be taken before the law for theft, you will do as I say."

"You can't make me." Her defiant words had a hollow ring.

"Oh? I think I can. Do you know what will be in store for you if I turn you over?"

Noelle's face paled. Those who made their living dishonestly feared the harshness of the English judicial system above all else.

"If you're lucky, it will be the gallows. If you're unlucky, transportation to Australia."

She drew in her breath sharply, her heart sinking at the thought of the stories she had heard of the convict ships.

As though reading her mind, he continued relentlessly, speaking of the men and women packed by the hundreds into the holds of the ships; of men turning into snarling animals and using the women freely. He talked of food, foul and filled with vermin; of the water, undrinkable; of disease running rampant-smallpox, dysentery, and cholera. For those who survived the trip, the nightmare was just beginning. The conditions at Botany Bay were harsh and inhumane, devastating to the human spirit.

Confident of her reaction, he waited patiently, watching the play of emotions on her face. Even Thomas was quiet, although visibly paler from Quinn's recitation of horrors.

Noelle's stomach pitched. He had her trapped. Her only hope lay in retrieving the knife he now held in his pocket. But you had your chance before, she reminded herself, for all the good it did you. Waving that blade and making threats won't work this time. This time you bloody well better be ready to kill him.

Noelle rose from the step. "You don't give me much choice, do you?" Although her words were those of capitulation, her look was defiant. "All right. I'll do wot you say."

Ignoring her eyes, which were blazing with hatred, Quinn turned to Thomas. "I'll need a special license tonight. Can you get it?"

"Special license?" Thomas puckered his forehead in thought and then snapped his fingers. "Yes. Yes, I believe I can."

"Also, I'll need a minister who won't ask too many questions. Know of anyone?"

"I've heard of a fellow. Not terribly respectable, mind you, but officially ordained."

"Good. Now we need a place to keep her while we make the arrangements."

"How about my parents' house? They're in the country, and the house is empty."

"And the servants?"

"They took everyone with them except the gardener, and he's off visiting his sister for the week. We can put her in the attic. It's at the back of the house where nothing can be noticed."

"Attic! I won't be locked up!"

"It sounds perfect." Quinn flashed Thomas a reckless grin as he gripped Noelle's bony wrist forcefully. "Come on, Tom. Let's be off."

Chapter Two

The Haymarket, linking Piccadilly with Trafalgar Square, was one of the most notorious locales of London's nightlife. Here, London's most fashionable citizens mingled with its least accepted. Curricles and tilburies barely missed the dust carts and brewers' drays that clattered down the street. Thieves, footpads, and pickpockets conjoined with the rich and powerful, each feeding off the other.

Prostitutes, gaily clad in ribboned and feathered bonnets, approached merchants' clerks and stonemasons. Although many of the women did not speak English, there was no language barrier in their trade; in rented rooms on the small streets near the Haymarket, they called out false endearments in French, Flemish, and German.

Barefoot children, some as young as six, clutched shoeblack boxes. Frequently they turned somersaults on the pavement as they scampered alongside carriages and cabs, trying to solicit customers.

Running patterers in greasy caps and patched breeches screamed scurrilous accounts of scandals and murders as they tried to hawk their penny papers. An enterprising urchin displaying "The Scarborough Tragedy" titillated bystanders with the highlights of the gallows confession of one Dempsey Tuttle, an unsavory baker who reputedly toasted his victims in a brick oven along with the day's batch of bread.

Quinn skillfully maneuvered the sporty phaeton through the evening traffic, finally pulling out of the carnival atmosphere of the Haymarket onto Regent Street. He and Thomas ignored Noelle as they debated the merits of the pair of matching grays Quinn had recently purchased.

Although it was the first time Noelle had ever ridden in a carriage, she barely noticed its fine appointments. Instead, she could not seem to take her eyes from the American's hands as they clasped the reins. They were broad and powerful with long fingers, squared at the tips. She thought of them as they had slid down her body, searching for the fateful watch; of the one moment they had cupped her breasts. What would it be like to be naked under those hands; to have them touching the rest of her body, exploring secret places?

She wanted to cry, scream, fling herself from the racing carriage, but sandwiched as she was between the two men, she could do none of these things. Instead, she turned her thoughts to her knife. She had to get it back! If he had only put it in the pocket nearest her instead of the opposite one.

The carriage had come to a quiet street lined with tall trees and elegant homes. Quinn turned into an alley that ran parallel to the street and stopped the rig behind one of the homes, its outline blurred by the dark and the evening's drizzle. He sprang out lightly and then held up his arms to Noelle, who glared at him defiantly and vaulted agilely over the side. He chuckled softly.

Noelle allowed herself to be led through a rear door and into a small room where several coats hung on wooden pegs. A pair of abandoned pattens lay on their side in a corner.

"Wait here while I get some light," Thomas instructed. He returned almost immediately, holding a brass candelabrum with three flaming candles. The flickering lights threw deep shadows on the planes of Quinn's chiseled features, giving him a diabolical look. The chilling illusion did not go unnoticed by Noelle. She shivered in spite of herself.

"This way." Thomas gestured toward a flight of narrow wooden stairs obviously used by the servants and led them to the attic landing. He stopped in front of a stout oak door and then unlocked it.

As the door swung open Noelle dimly perceived sloping ceilings and mysterious conformations. Thomas entered, and the light from the candelabrum fell on odd pieces of furniture, battered trunks, and dust-covered bundles.

Quinn pushed Noelle into the room, making no effort to enter himself. Panic, as relentless and uncontrollable as the forces of nature, overcame her. She stumbled over to Thomas, frantically clutching at his arm.

"Please don't leave me 'ere," she begged, her lips trembling.

Thomas, uncomfortable under her frightened gaze, looked away and mumbled, "Don't worry. We shan't be gone long, and this will keep you company until we return." He placed the candelabrum on a scarred desk top and rushed from the room, the sound of his footsteps fading into the darkness of the hall.

Raising her ravaged face, Noelle looked into the arrogant countenance she hated so much. He regarded her impersonally, his overpowering presence filling the doorway.

Even after the door had slammed, separating them, she could still feel his eyes boring into her. No longer rational, she threw herself at the door.

"No!" she screamed. "Don't do this to me!" Her frail fists beat futilely against the barrier. "Please, somebody help me!" It was useless. She rested her cheek against the door and sobbed. Her strength ebbing with her spirits, she slid into a crumpled heap at the base of the door.

It had happened. A man was threatening her, controlling her. Feeling the panic rising again in her throat, she jerked up from the floor.

"No!" she exploded. "I'm not going to let this happen to me."

She scanned the room. The candles had burned to three sputtering stubs; she had to move quickly.

For the first time since she had entered the room, she felt a small stir of hope. Set high in the wall across from her was a small window. In one corner of the room a child's rocking chair with a broken seat lay on its side. She rushed to it, wrenching off one splintered rocker, then crossed to the window. Raising her arms high above her head, she thrust the rocker through the glass. Jagged pieces showered over her, one making a thin cut on her cheek, another embedding itself in the back of her hand. Ignoring her wounds, she looked about for something to stand on. Precious minutes elapsed as she struggled, trying to move some wooden crates. It wouldn't do; she couldn't budge them.

Straightening wearily, she noticed bookshelves lining the wall adjacent to the door. She hastened to the shelves and loaded her arms with the dusty volumes, stacking them underneath the window. When the pile reached her knees, she cautiously climbed on top. Avoiding the glass lying on the dusty sill, she peered out the window and took in great lungfuls of cool, crisp air.

The rooftop sloped sharply away from her, its edge disappearing into the bleak, silent night. She removed the last shreds of glass from the frame and tried to angle her shoulders through the opening, but it was too narrow to accommodate them. She climbed down off the pile of books and removed her bulky coat, but it did no good. No matter how she contorted her body, she couldn't get through the small window.

She screamed with frustration, then shouted into the darkness, "Help! Somebody help me! Is anybody there? Please!"

She waited, praying for any response. Again and again she screamed. The night mocked her with its silence.

Once more she lowered herself back into the attic room and sat on the pile of books she had stacked so hopefully. Quinn Copeland! He had caged her like an animal.

In a wild rage, she dashed across the room to the door and slammed it with her fists, cursing and sobbing. Abruptly she stopped and stared at the door. Then, her pulses racing, she bent over and peeked through the keyhole. A slow smile crept across her face.

Purposefully crossing to the pile of books, she ripped a page from a large volume. She spotted a thin quill lying on the floor next to the broken desk. Taking them both to the door, she lowered herself to her knees and slid the paper underneath, carefully aligning it with the knob. Barely breathing, she gingerly poked the quill through the keyhole. Only when she heard a faint plop from the other side did she let out her breath. Cautiously she pulled the paper back into the room. A large brass key rested on top.

She let out a whoop of joy and pressed the key to her lips. With trembling hands she fit it into the lock and turned it. The tumbler clicked. Free at last, Noelle flung open the door triumphantly.

He stood indolently on the other side, his dark eyes crinkling with amusement. "Very clever," he drawled. "I underestimated you."

Wordlessly he led her down the narrow stairs and out of the house. Instead of the open phaeton, there was an enclosed carriage waiting for them in the dark alley. A driver, his bulky form muffled in a cloak, spoke softly to the patient horses.

The interior of the carriage was empty. She clutched her hands tightly, the torn fingernails biting into her palms. Where was Thomas? she wondered. The door of the carriage shut firmly, and

Quinn settled himself beside her. She slid to the end of the seat, putting as much distance between them as possible. Quinn did not seem to notice. With unseeing, haunted eyes he stared out the window of the coach.

Noelle shivered with cold; she had left her cloak in the attic room, and her thin dress offered little protection against the night chill. Now she would give anything to be back in the room from which she had struggled so hard to escape. Although it had been her prison, the small attic room had also been her sanctuary, her last bastion of hope of escape. And now she was alone with this savage stranger who was intent on controlling her destiny.

Involuntarily Noelle's hand stroked the soft black leather of the seat. She had never seen anything as grand as this carriage. Red silk curtains trimmed in black fringe hung at the windows. Outside were shiny brass lanterns, sparkling with the rain that clung to them. She peered into the night beyond, but the streets were unfamiliar. An idea was beginning to take shape in her mind.

She turned to the American and smiled shyly. "I'm right sorry I been causin' ya so much trouble."

For a moment he looked at her blankly, as though he had forgotten she was there. "Oh? Why this sudden change of heart?"

"Well"-she was thoughtful-"I could say it's because yer a 'andsome devil, and I've taken a fancy to ya, but yer'd never believe that, would ya, ducks?" She looked at him guilelessly. "The truth is, I been thinkin' 'bout that money yer said ya was gonna give ter me. 'Ow much would ya be thinkin' about, if ya don't mind me askin'?"

"How much do you think you're worth?"

"It's 'ard ter say." She regarded him levelly, coyly patting her hair, which was now stiff with dried mud. "Some 'as said I'm worth a king's ransom, but I don't know as I'd go that far."

"How modest of you," he replied, his tone clearly signaling his disinterest.

There was a slight tremble to her voice. "Maybe the best thing ter do would be ter give ya a sample of what I've got ter offer." She lowered her eyes, looking at him through her lashes. "Then ya could judge fer yerself. Work from experience, so ter speak."

He leaned lazily into the corner of the carriage, making no move to touch her.

Gathering her courage, she slid over to him and tilted her shoulders forward, revealing more of her bosom. As she smiled in poor imitation of a temptress, she slid her arms slowly around his shoulders, then tilted her head back and pressed her lips to his. They were hard and dry, and he instinctively recoiled from her kiss.

Summoning up her wits, she pushed her body against his, moving her fingers over his neck and back, simulating passion. Gradually she led her hands to the pocket where he had placed the dagger. It was empty! With growing alarm, she slid her hands over his chest. The knife was gone! Furious, she pushed herself away from him.

His eyes were ruthless. "You didn't think I'd be stupid enough to keep it, did you? Your knife is lying in a gutter in Soho. I underestimated you once. I'm not going to do it again."

With all her force, she swung at the arrogant face. He drew back, his head barely avoiding her flying fist, and imprisoned her wrist, cruelly twisting her arm behind her back. Grabbing her jaw with his free hand, he pulled her face toward his.

"I've had enough! One more episode like this and I will personally turn you over to the law. Do you understand me?"

Noelle mutely nodded her head in defeat. He released her, and they rode the rest of the way in silence, bitter resentment churning inside her.

The minister was a tall, angular man with ferret eyes and an oily smile. Noelle knew immediately that she could expect no help from him; he had obviously been well paid to do his part. He picked up a tattered Bible and inquired the name of the bride.

Thomas looked blankly at Quinn, realizing they'd never bothered to find out her name. Quinn turned to the despondent young girl next to him. She was suddenly aware of three sets of eyes watching her, waiting for her response.

"Noelle Dorian," she mumbled.

Quinn smiled crookedly at the absurdity of the pitiful street creature with the elegant French name while Thomas snorted loudly, then attempted to conceal his rudeness with a cough.

Noelle's cheeks burned. They were laughing at her! God, how she hated them both.

The marriage ceremony passed in a blur. Noelle was conscious of nothing except a dark stain on the cracked wall behind the minister's head. It reminded her of a rat sitting on its haunches. Reality leaped back at her when the American took her hand and slipped a thin gold band onto her finger.

Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the night air fresh and crisp. Waiting for them were the carriage and Thomas's curricle. "I say, Quinn, you two can't go off without letting me drink to your happiness. Sorry I forgot the crystal." Producing a bottle of brandy from the floor of his rig, he saluted Quinn with it and grinned broadly. "May your time together be short and your revenge sweet." He took a swig and then passed the bottle to Quinn, who drank deeply.

Quinn turned to Noelle and regarded his bride with the detached, impersonal air she had come to expect. "Will you have a drink?" he inquired.

"I'd die of thirst before I'd drink with you," she sneered defiantly.

"Suit yourself." He dismissed her indifferently and turned to Thomas. "I'll accept this excellent brandy as your wedding present, Tom. I'm going to need it tonight much more than you."

Quinn mutely guided Noelle to their carriage. As they pulled out of the narrow street she heard a clock toll the single hour-a death knell for her old life. Noelle Dorian had been replaced by Noelle Copeland. She should be elated by her good fortune; Daisy would have rejoiced to have had such luck. Instead, she felt debased, used, terrified of the savage man to whom she was now so permanently joined. And this hellish night was not finished with her yet.

Her thin fingers clutched her skirts convulsively as her ears rang with the remembered sounds of her mother's pitiful cries and the obscene noises of the men who had writhed over her. This was the fate in store for her, and she knew he would have no mercy.

The appearance of the mismatched pair at Quinn's respectable lodgings did not go unnoticed. The venerable patrons of the tap room stared incredulously at the tall, dashing American escorting the filthy creature in an emerald satin dress.

Ignoring their stunned expressions, Quinn strode purposefully to the innkeeper, never loosening his grip on Noelle's arm. "Hastings, I'm going to my room, and I want plenty of hot water sent up immediately."

"Certainly, sir," the robust Hastings responded in hushed tones, "but if I may say so, sir, this young… lady, sir, is… well, sir…"He sputtered with embarrassment, unwilling to offend his wealthy American lodger but determined to have his say. "She's not the sort who is normally welcomed in establishments such as this." He spread his plump arms. "Mr. Copeland, what you do for pleasure is none of my business, of course, but-"

"You're absolutely right, Hastings; it's none of your business. Now, send up the water."

Quinn turned on his heel and led Noelle upstairs to his room. He opened the door and, none too gently, pushed her in.

In the corner of the comfortably furnished room was a small carved chest with several decanters and glasses of different sizes and shapes. After filling one of the larger tumblers to the brim with the contents of Thomas's wedding present, Quinn shed his outer garments and settled himself comfortably in a large upholstered wing chair pulled up near a warm, crackling fire.

Noelle huddled, forgotten, across the room. She watched him. The snowy white of his shirt and cravat contrasted sharply with the ebony of his hair, his velvet waistcoat, and his gleaming leather boots. The dark eyes that stared into the flames were tortured. He drank steadily. What devils haunted this man who was now her husband?

A sharp knock at the door shattered the silence of the room. With pantherlike grace, he rose from the chair and opened it to admit two work-weary maids carrying steaming buckets of hot water. With practiced efficiency, they set up a large hip bath on the hearth. Darting curious looks at the unlikely couple, they left the room reluctantly, their giggles clearly audible as they disappeared down the hallway.

Quinn locked the door behind them. With a calculating look at his unwilling bride, he placed the key atop a mahogany armoire.

Noelle's eyes traveled to the bath steaming in its shiny copper tub. How long she had dreamed of luxury such as this: immersing herself in the warm water, scouring the grime of poverty from her skin with scented soap, wrapping herself in a fluffy white towel. But not here; not like this.

"Take off your clothes." He stood next to her, not bothering to conceal his distaste for her appearance.

She realized he had no intention of leaving the room. Involuntarily her eyes went to the most imposing piece of furniture in the chamber, the large bed already turned down for the night. Desperation giving her courage, Noelle seethed at him.

"Go to 'ell, you bastard. I'm not taking any more from you!" Her eyes flashed angrily. "Send me to Australia. I'd rather take my chances there than 'ere with you."

Ruthlessly he grabbed her slender shoulders, his voice a snarl. "Listen to me; I'm only going to say this once. For reasons your pitiful little mind can't even begin to understand, I've married you, and I'm going to make sure this marriage can't be annulled. As much as you revolt me, I'm going to consummate it. But first you're going to get into that tub and wash before your filthy body completely unmans me."

"I will not! Get your 'ands off me!" She beat her fists against his massive chest.

"All right. If this is the way you want it…"He grabbed the low neck of her tawdry emerald gown and pulled violently, sending the buttons flying throughout the room. She clutched at the dress, but not before the material had fallen from her shoulders, exposing her naked body to the waist. Quinn's eyes widened perceptibly as he saw her young, swelling breasts. Lovely rounded globes tipped in coral, they thrust proudly from her thin body.

"You are full of surprises, aren't you?"

Desperately she clutched at her torn dress, pulling the material back over her breasts.

"Don't play the coy virgin with me." He jerked the dress from her body, taking the rest of her chemise and her single bedraggled petticoat with it.

As she stood naked before his open scrutiny, the torn garments in a pool around her ankles, her pride deserted her. "Please don't do this to me," she begged, her voice shaking with fear. "I'm not what you think. Let me go."

His voice was low and determined. "Get into the bath."

His order was meant to be obeyed. At least the bath would hide her from his assessing eyes. She turned her back on him, and, with what little dignity she could muster, walked to the bath and slid into its soothing warmth.

Quinn removed his velvet waistcoat and untied his cravat. After refilling his glass, he settled himself in the wing chair by the fire, his long legs stretched casually before him. He watched her through impersonal eyes as he unbuttoned his shirt. Hanging from a thin leather thong, a small disk of beaten silver rested against his bronzed chest.

She was scrubbing roughly, her fingers digging into her scalp as she shampooed her short carrot thatch. Meticulously washing each part of herself, she kept as much of her body as possible hidden under the water. When she was done, she began again more slowly, trying to steal precious minutes.

As Quinn watched her bathe he felt no heat in his blood, no tightening in his loins. If anything, the emaciated features that the rough scrubbing revealed were even more unattractive now than when they had been hidden under the garish cosmetics.

He drained his glass and poured another. Alcohol had never before prevented him from performing; perhaps it would fog his brain enough so he could carry through this distasteful task. He rose from the chair and turned down the room's one lamp. Now only the fire provided light. The silver disk on his chest glittered orange like a malevolent eye. He walked toward the tub and picked up the towel, tossing it where she could not reach it.

"Get up."

She looked up at him, her eyes mutely pleading, her lips slightly parted. Frozen with fear, she could not move.

He was beside her in one long stride, pulling her out of the tub. Abruptly he released her and stepped back, taking in the generous spheres of her breasts as they glistened golden in the fire's flames. His eyes dropped to the curly triangle between her legs. Finally he felt himself hardening, and he quickly shed his clothes. Not willing to risk losing his desire, he kept his eyes away from her face and on her nude body, its thinness mercifully obscured by the room's dim light.

Noelle's heart thumped painfully at the sight of him naked in front of her. His broad chest and arms were well-muscled, his flanks narrow. Against her will, her eyes fastened on his manhood, jutting enormous and threatening from the curly black hair beneath his flat stomach. Her heart pounded as the awful memories came flooding back. Like a cornered animal, she backed away from him, her fear hanging tangibly in the room.

But he was past noticing. Fueled by the liquor he had been steadily consuming since early evening, his lust was single- minded. He stalked her slowly, his eyes on the twin globes of her breasts. She backed into a wall and then could go no farther.

Fingers like steel bit into her arms as he dragged her to the bed and lowered his body onto hers. She struggled wildly, finding a strength she did not know she possessed. But it was futile. Easily capturing both her fragile wrists in one of his powerful hands, he pinned them to the bed above her head, and then he cupped one round breast, running his thumb back and forth over the tip. Noelle's teeth bit into her bottom lip, drawing blood; at that moment she would have welcomed death. However, her humiliation was just beginning.

With one powerful knee, he forced her legs apart, brutally exposing her soft, virginal petals to his scrutiny. But it was no tender lover who gazed down on her. It was a man driven by devils and obsessed with some mysterious revenge. She felt his hardness press against her opening. He trust himself inside her, brutally ripping her maiden's veil as she screamed with heart-rending agony.

"Good Christ!" he murmured hoarsely.

But it was too late. Passion overrode his reason. He thrust more and more deeply until he exploded within her.

Chapter Three

The smells were what finally awakened her-they assaulted her senses. The hand near her face was perfumed with honeysuckle from the soap she had used; the crisp aroma of starched sheets mingled with a woodsy tang from the smoldering ashes of the previous night's fire. There was something else, too: a faint masculine scent of leather and tobacco.

Noelle's eyes snapped open. She was alone. The memories of the previous night thundered over her. Resting a thin, bruised arm across her eyes, she attempted to ward them off; however, even that small movement made her wince with pain, and so she lay motionless, staring at the ceiling.

All of Noelle's years of desperate poverty had not been able to defeat her. Peddlers, whores, thieves, ragged street urchins, they all called her "Highness," in part to bait her, since she was different from them, but also with grudging respect for her self-sufficiency. She knew instinctively that that was behind her now. In one night the American had conquered her. He had not only violated her body, he had violated her spirit. He was wild, uncivilized. None of her experiences had prepared her for anyone like him, and she found herself with no resources to use against him.

Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. Harshly she brushed them away and slowly raised herself from the great bed, cropped ends of carrot hair sticking to her damp cheeks. Mechanically she pulled the covers up over the bed, hiding the small bloodstain that marred the white sheet. She walked painfully to the mahogany washstand and surveyed herself with detachment in its oval mirror.

She looked like a corpse. The bruises on her arms stood out vividly against her unhealthily waxen skin. Her orange hair, although clean, was matted in frizzled clumps about her head. She ran her fingers through it, ignoring the carved tortoiseshell brushes that had been tossed carelessly on the washstand's top. Finally her eyes fastened on the insides of her thighs, stained with his spilled seed, the physical evidence of the American's violation of her body. With trembling hands, she grabbed the white china water pitcher and emptied its contents into the matching bowl. The tepid water splashed over the mahogany surface and ran off onto the floor. She ignored it, absorbed in a brutal scrubbing of her painfully thin body. Her clothing had disappeared, so she wrapped her nakedness with the large, soft bath towel unused from the night before.

Just as she finished there was a light tapping on the door, followed by a click. The door swung open, admitting a buxom little dumpling of a woman carrying a heavy tray. Fading ginger curls sprinkled with gray peeked from under an oversized mobcap. The mouth-watering aroma of warm bread and hot chocolate accompanied her into the room.

"How d'ya do there, missy?" she chirped with a crisp Irish brogue. "It's such a fine mornin' for a change." Her bright blue eyes darted around the room. "Oh, ya haven't even opened the curtains. Here, let me do it for ya." Setting the tray down, she bustled to the windows. "I've been given me orders to get you fed and ready to leave with that handsome Mr. Copeland."

Noelle drew in her breath audibly. The woman looked at her more closely, taking in the dark bruises on her arms and her woebegone expression. What was a man like Mr. Copeland doing with a poor creature like this? Inexplicably she felt her sympathies rise for the pathetic young girl and decided to do her best to cheer her up.

"Me name's Brigid O'Shea. Now, sit right here and eat, missy, while I tidy up."

Noelle felt some of her tension slip away as she viewed with wonder the tempting array of food put before her. There was a wicker basket heaped with warm buns and a bowl of porridge topped with spoonfuls of golden honey. A flowered pitcher was filled to the brim with cream. There was a mound of butter and a steaming mug of hot chocolate, foamy on the top. She hadn't eaten since hours before her fateful meeting with the American, and that had been poor fare, a withered apple and a slice of stale bread. She began gulping great mouthfuls of food as though she were afraid it would be snatched from her.

"My, my, dearie, y'are hungry, ain't y a?"

Embarrassed, Noelle began to eat more slowly, savoring each bite.

"I used ta eat like a bird meself when I was younger." Brigid chuckled to herself, indicating her well-padded figure. "To look at me now, you'd never believe it, would ya? Oh, the way the men looked at me, all waitin' for a chance to spend some time with me. It was flatterin', but it wasn't easy, mind ya. Most of them was lookin' for nothin' more than a little fun, if ya take my meanin'."

The kindly woman noticed the tight, stricken look that crossed Noelle's features. Could she possibly be dim-witted, unaware of what a wealthy and powerful protector she had? Brigid began to strip the bed efficiently.

" 'Course they weren't nothin' compared to your rich Mr. Copeland. Aye! To be young again. I'd give up all me fond memories just to spend a night with that handsome man."

Noelle groaned almost imperceptibly just as Brigid threw off the last cover and revealed the stained sheet. The plump Irishwoman eyed the drops of blood with surprise. Aye, so that's how it was, she thought, and here I was thinkin' she was a common whore, may the saints forgive me.

She knelt down beside Noelle, who was sitting vacant-eyed in her chair, and clasped the girl's thin hands in her own plump ones. "Had a bad time of it, did ya?"

Noelle looked into the friendly blue eyes and nodded dumbly. "It was horrible." Suddenly she straightened in her chair and clutched her new friend's hands tightly. "Please, Brigid, help me get away before he gets back. Just get me some clothes to put on and show me the back way out."

Brigid disengaged her hands from Noelle's grasp and began stroking her abused orange hair gently. "What on earth could ya be thinkin' of," she scolded. "Use your head, girl. He's not one to cross. He'd find you in no time if he wanted to, and then you'd be worse off than y'are right now."

"It isn't possible for me to be any worse off than I am now!" Noelle exclaimed.

"Now, calm yourself, dearie, and listen to me." Brigid crossed to a bundle she had dropped when she entered the room.

Unwrapping it, she gingerly pulled out a petticoat, the torn dress, and a small sewing kit. "Mr. Copeland gave orders you're to be sewn back in this dress."

Noelle opened her mouth to protest.

"Would you rather him be walkin' in on you like this with nothin' but that towel wrapped around yer naked body?" Brigid clucked in exasperation. "Though why he should want you sewn into this filthy rag is more than I can say." She pulled away the towel and helped Noelle into the petticoat, then draped the distasteful garment over Noelle's body. She began pinning and stitching. "Yer all bones, child. Look at yer ribs! Though it has to be said that you've a fine bosom."

Noelle turned obediently as Brigid stitched. She felt warmed by her motherly concern; it had been so long since anyone had cared about her or fussed over her. Brigid finally finished and stepped back to observe her handiwork.

Unexpectedly the door banged open and Quinn strode into the room. Noelle whirled around in her chair. He was dressed impeccably in a pearl-gray morning coat with matching trousers. His handsome face was drawn and tired, its harsh planes strongly etched. He regarded her dispassionately, then turned to Brigid.

"Did you feed her?"

"Aye, that I did, sir." Brigid gestured toward the breakfast tray. Only two buns and a bit of porridge were left on it. "Half starved, she was," she sniffed, shooting Quinn a disapproving scowl.

Quinn grinned back at her good-naturedly. "I'll feed her more often. In the meantime, take this with you when you go." He nodded toward the tray, dismissing her.

Noelle watched him. Once again he was acting as though she weren't in the room. The turbulent emotions she had felt the night before were gone. Instead, she was filled with an icy hatred so intense, it consumed her.

"Just a minute." Her voice was cold and steady. She walked purposefully over to Quinn and held out her hand. "I want a guinea."

He raised one dark eyebrow questioningly, but then, with a disinterested shrug, placed a shiny guinea in her hand.

Noelle took it to Brigid and pressed it on her. "Here, take this. I was in need of a friend."

"Why, thank you, miss."

Two could play the game of humiliation. "It's 'missus.' I'm Noelle Copeland, Mrs. Quinn Copeland."

The Irishwoman's apple cheeks paled at Noelle's disclosure. A hundred questions sprang to her lips only to remain unasked. For once the loquacious Brigid was without words.

"Y-yes, ma'am. Thank-thank ya, ma'am." She bobbed an awkward curtsy, her mobcap flopping comically on her curls, and fled from the chamber, closing the door behind her.

Noelle squared her small shoulders and turned to face the American.

Pantherlike, he crossed the room toward her, never taking his eyes from hers. "If you think you can humiliate me, you're wrong. However, you can provoke me, and that would be unwise. You are to flaunt this marriage to no one without my permission, do you understand?"

With every inch of her being, Noelle yearned to slap his arrogant face, to fling herself at him and claw out those unfeeling eyes. But she hadn't the courage, and she hated herself for her cowardice.

"You should have told me, you know." Incredibly she saw pity etched across his chiseled features. "I wouldn't have been so rough. It's not my habit to rape virgins."

"And if I told you, would you 'ave believed me?" She spoke bitterly, knowing the answer even before the question had passed her pale lips. "Of course you wouldn't 'ave… so you just take yer pity and shove it up yer arse."

Ignoring her, he withdrew a small white jar from the pocket of his coat and unscrewed the lid to reveal scarlet rouge. Dipping his finger in the pot, he slashed it across her cheeks and smeared it over her lips.

He began to chuckle infuriatingly. "There, now you look like the girl I married."

Chapter Four

The late morning sun shone brightly on the gleaming white door and the ornate lion's head knocker that adorned it. Lifting it, Quinn rapped sharply. Noelle was overawed as she gazed at the brick exterior of the stately London town house that graced fashionable Northridge Square. The door opened, revealing a thin, elderly man dressed in spotless livery. His sparse white eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly at the improbable pair on the doorstep.

"Good morning, Tomkins," Quinn said, ushering Noelle inside.

She was entranced. Her eyes drank in the splendor of the foyer with its glossy black marble floor. Sunlight streamed in through two tall windows and splashed the polished brass wall sconces and the graceful daffodil-yellow settee that rested along one ivory wall.

"Good morning, Mr. Copeland," Tomkins said stiffly.

"Is my father in?"

"In the library, sir." The butler hesitated briefly, then glanced significantly at Noelle. "Do you wish me to announce you?"

"No, I think I'll surprise him." Quinn grinned.

Tomkins inclined his head slightly. "Very well, sir." His back rigid with disapproval, he disappeared noiselessly down the hallway.

Quinn led Noelle into a small anteroom. "Wait for me here. I'll be back shortly." He pulled a key from the inside of the door. "You know it wouldn't be any use to try to escape, don't you? This time I won't be stupid enough to leave the key in the other side of the door."

"You don't really think a locked door would keep me 'ere if I made up my mind to leave, do you, Quinn?" she sneered, using his first name deliberately, spitting it out of her mouth as if it were venom.

He ignored her bravado. "You mean you're not going to try to escape the minute my back is turned? Forgive me if I don't believe you, but honesty is not one of your more sterling qualities. You have no one but yourself to blame for last night. You weren't even an honest whore, were you?"

"Honesty," she said flatly. "What do you know about honesty? More money than you can spend. Never 'ad to worry about a place to sleep fer the night or an empty stomach. It's easy fer you to be able to talk about honesty. You're rich enough to afford it."

"You shouldn't have been so quick to judge me. I might have surprised you."

He closed the door, turned the key in the lock, and headed for the library, where the confrontation he had been anticipating for so long waited for him.

Simon Copeland sat at the massive desk, a large ledger bound in tan calf open in front of him. However, he wasn't really concentrating on the rows of figures that stretched in neat columns down the page. Instead, he was wondering how the shipyard in Cape Crosse was operating in his absence. Once again he was grateful that he had been wise enough twenty-four years ago to choose that small Georgia town on Providence Sound as the location of Copeland and Peale's American shipyard.

He remembered how the older and more experienced shipbuilders had scoffed at him. They warned him that a location thirty-five miles south of Savannah was too isolated, that he would have to depend on slaves because skilled labor would be impossible to come by. But Simon had no intention of building a shipyard on human misery. Instead, he traveled to New York and Boston, where he scoured the shipyards owned by some of the same men who had laughed at him.

There, Simon found freed slaves and experienced craftsmen, many of them immigrants from the shipyards of Scotland and Holland, family men who were disillusioned with the crowded conditions of cities and wanted something better for their children. Simon told them about Cape Crosse with its schoolhouse and three churches. He told them of the new white frame houses that were sitting empty, waiting for families to fill them. And, since they loved ships, he also told them of the kinds of vessels he and Benjamin Peale planned to build. Simon Copeland found his workers.

He remembered how delighted Ben had been at his first sight of Cape Crosse. Damn, he missed him! Simon's fingers fondly stroked the carved walnut as he thought of his former partner sitting at this same desk. Simon was a meticulous man, but he smiled as he recalled Ben's chaotic work habits: rumpled papers scattered haphazardly across the polished top, books strewn about this same room, contracts representing hundreds of pounds stuffed into an empty ale mug on the mantel. Perhaps it was just as well that he and Ben had had an ocean separating them; it was probably the secret of their successful partnership. Since the early years, they had seldom seen each other. Still, it had pleased Simon as he sat in his orderly office in Cape Crosse to think of Benjamin here, running the British branch of the company amidst the cheery chaos that always surrounded him.

Since Ben had died eight months ago, Simon had increasingly come to realize how much he had relied on his partner's good sense. It wasn't happenstance that Simon had purchased the Peales' Northridge Square town house. Benjamin's widow, Constance, who now owned half the company, had decided to remain at her country estate in Sussex during her year of deep mourning. Since she only planned to visit London infrequently as her business affairs dictated, she had sold the elegant Northridge Square home to Simon and purchased a smaller house nearby. He had been here four months now, and it probably would be twice that long before he could return to Cape Crosse. Somehow it had comforted Simon to be here among Benjamin's things as he sorted out the affairs of the English shipyard.

If only he could turn the Cape Crosse yard over to Quinn and stay in England himself. Somehow he had hoped…

He frowned, his dark brows almost meeting in the middle. Damnation! He was going to have to do something about his son. Almost twenty-eight and still as wild as he'd been as a boy.

Quinn knew all there was to know about building ships; he understood the intricacies of running Copeland and Peale. How could he be so impractical with all his talk of experimentation? He wanted to sink thousands of dollars into the development of a totally new hull shape. Copeland and Peale was a conservative shipbuilder, not some shoddy organization that would fall in with any foolhardy scheme.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to summon Quinn from Cape Crosse three months before. His son had now managed to swing Constance over to his side. That could present a problem, since she still controlled half the company. Why isn't Quinn like other men's sons, Simon thought bitterly-obedient, respectful of his father?

His thoughts were interrupted as the study door flew open and the subject of his ruminations strode in. At first glance the resemblance between the two men was striking; however, a closer scrutiny revealed that the likeness was more of manner than physical appearance.

At fifty, Simon's dark hair was threaded with silver, but he was still a handsome man, broad-shouldered and muscular with biting blue eyes. Quinn was the larger and darker of the two. His cheekbones were higher and more defined, but the two men had the same strong brow and bold nose.

"Don't you ever knock?" Simon grumbled.

Quinn lit a thin cheroot and crossed to the fireplace. "There's no need for us to stand on ceremony, is there, Simon?" He leaned gracefully against the marble mantel and crossed one booted ankle over the other.

"So"-Simon regarded his tall, handsome son critically-"the prodigal son returns. Don't you think it was a bit extravagant to take private rooms for yourself when you could have stayed here?"

This was an old argument between them. Over the years Quinn had prudently invested his wages. He had long been financially independent of his father, a fact that galled Simon.

"It's my money, Simon, as you well know. Besides, don't you think that would be rather hypocritical, considering all of our differences?"

"Our differences, as you call them, are of your making, not mine," the older man barked angrily.

"Our differences, Simon, started before I was old enough to cause them."

Simon gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, and glared at his son. Their eyes locked in silent combat, punctuated only by the ticking of the gilded clock on the mantel. Abruptly Simon slumped back in his chair, impatiently running his fingers through his black hair.

"If I had known you were coming, I would have made arrangements for Constance to be here," he said gruffly. "I know how you enjoy her company."

At the thought of Constance, Quinn relaxed. He crossed to a leather chair angled near the walnut desk. "The fair Constance. Now, there's a woman!" He settled himself comfortably in the chair and looked significantly at his father. "She's bright, vibrant."

"Bright? How can you say that? She's the most featherbrained woman I've ever met, and she insists on meddling in company affairs."

Quinn regarded his father evenly. "She's half owner of Copeland and Peale now, as well as being an admirable woman. Don't be so quick to dismiss her opinions. She may be flighty, but she's not stupid."

"She's a meddler and knows nothing of the business!" Simon exclaimed, rising from his chair and stalking across the room.

"She was married to your partner for twenty-one years," Quinn reminded him.

"Yes, and Ben paid too much attention to her crazy ideas."

"Which crazy ideas?" Quinn asked coolly. "Building a totally new hull?" He walked to the fireplace and flicked the ash from his cheroot onto the grate. "You're a fool, Simon. You know the rumors about the work at Smith and Damon in New York."

"A fool, am I!" Simon shot back. "Damn it, Quinn, we've been through this a hundred times. A ship without her breadth well forward in the beam will founder. A shipbuilder doesn't go against the natural order of things, and you only have to look at nature to see the error of your concept. There's hardly a species of fish that isn't largest near the head, forward of its center."

"Fish are fish, Simon, and ships are ships. Fish exist in only one element, the sea. And at the depths they swim, the sea is calm. Ships must contend with two elements, wind and sea, and they're both unpredictable. You're so wrong, Simon," Quinn said, his eyes glittering harshly, "but then you always have believed in your own infallibility."

Simon looked at his son sadly, then walked over to the desk and settled himself again in the chair. He spoke softly. "Can't we stop this endless bickering?"

Quinn's smile was chilling; it never reached his eyes. "As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here. I've done something for you, something you've been asking me to do for a long time."

Simon stared at Quinn quizzically, not missing the grim line of his son's jaw. "Oh?"

"Yes, I've taken your advice. Wait here. I have a surprise for you."

Quinn left the room hastily and returned moments later with an apprehensive Noelle in tow. Simon gazed incredulously at the pitifully wasted creature decked out in scarlet rouge and a dirty gown. It was impossible! He had brought a vulgar trollop into his father's house.

Simon's voice was deadly. "What is the meaning of this?"

Eyes gleaming triumphantly, Quinn replied, "I'd like you to meet my wife. We were married last night."

The older man was speechless, his face a mask of astonishment as he took in the outrageous carrot thatch.

"The ceremony was unorthodox, but definitely legal." Quinn watched his father closely, savoring each moment of his revenge. "Tom Sully was the witness."

Outraged, Simon leaped from his chair, his jaw tightly clenched. "If this is your idea of a joke-"

"Oh, it's no joke," Quinn interrupted smoothly. "Remember, Simon, you were the one who wanted me to marry. You wanted me to settle down, become respectable… be just as conservative and stodgy as you are." His voice rose angrily. "Though why in hell you, of all people, have turned into a champion of marriage is more than I can fathom." He started to say more, to inflict another small jab of wound-opening memory, knowing even a light touch could make it fester, but he thought better of it, contenting himself with saying, "You were the one who wanted me to take a bride. Well, I did, and now you can have her. I hope you'll both be very happy."

He turned on his heels and walked to the door. As he reached out to grab the knob, he paused and turned back to face his father. "By the way, it took a great deal of persuasion to convince this lovely lady to marry me. She's accustomed to being paid for her services." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a fat envelope and tossed it toward Simon. It flew through the air and landed with a slap on the desk top.

"Make sure she gets this."

Noelle could listen no longer. She went mad, leaping toward him with hands outstretched like claws and shrieking loudly, "You son of a bitch! I hate you! The fires of hell are too good for you, you friggin' bastard!"

Extricating himself from her flying fists, Quinn's face broke into a wide grin at her tirade. "Charming, isn't she?" The door slammed behind him.

Chapter Five

Without moving, Simon stared at the closed door. His face was gray and drawn, but he felt nothing-no anger or frustration or hurt or humiliation or any of the other myriad of emotions that would soon bombard him. He had been stricken a blow so unexpected, so devastating, that he was stunned; this was the tangible evidence of just how great his son's hatred was. Another man might have cried or prayed or screamed out, but Simon did none of these things because he did not know how. Too many years had passed since he had felt any deep sentiments.

Then the pain began.

Memories he had successfully blocked from his mind came rushing back: holding his son close, tossing him in the air, running with him. He remembered how the small child had haunted the Cape Crosse shipyard, sometimes sitting quietly and watching the carpenters as they worked but more frequently bombarding them with questions.

And then, the bitter years, watching the naked hatred in the same eyes that had smiled at him. He had been unable to confront his guilt because the boy was too great a reminder of the disaster Simon had made of his personal life, too great a reminder of the one other person they had both loved so deeply. For the first time in years Simon Copeland comprehended the depth of love he felt for his son.

Now he looked over at the woman who was the instrument of his son's revenge. She stood across the room from him, staring out the window. The glare from the late morning sun obscured her features, but she seemed quiet and calm. Her composure angered him. This slut was his son's wife! Could she really have been as reluctant as she had seemed?

He opened the envelope Quinn had tossed down so nonchalantly and pulled out a fat bundle of pound notes. She was certainly being well paid for her part in this charade. Had she somehow been responsible for what had happened? Simon thought of his strong-willed son and discarded the idea. No one could force Quinn into anything; Simon had firsthand knowledge of that. No, this girl was merely a catalyst, a pawn in Quinn's game of revenge.

A piece of stationery dropped out of the envelope. Simon opened it to find Quinn's bold handwriting glaring accusingly at him:

March 28, 1835

I hereby resign from my association with Copeland and Peale and renounce all claims I have on that company.

Quinn Christopher Copeland

London, England

Simon stared at the short letter in stunned disbelief and then reread it. Its terseness and impersonal tone revealed more than the words themselves. He knew with an unshakable certainty that Quinn was absolving himself not only of his association with the company, but also of any association with his father. He was walking out of Simon's life as he had done once before. Except this time he was leaving something behind.

Simon looked at Noelle and noticed that her chest was trembling slightly. She had turned so that the glare from the window no longer fell directly on her face, and Simon saw the tears coursing down her cheeks. Why, she was not much more than a child! She seemed so defenseless, her grief all the more pitiful because it was silent.

His logical mind took over, and he stuffed the pound notes back into the envelope. She was undoubtedly upset about her earlier angry outburst and afraid that she would now not be paid. His voice was calm but cold.

"There's really no need for you to cry. Here is the money you were promised. I suggest you use it wisely. This is a God-given opportunity for you to better yourself, to improve your station in life." Even to himself, he sounded pompous.

The girl regarded him directly, as though she were assessing him. She made no attempt to conceal her tears, nor did she move to take the envelope he proffered. He felt vaguely uncomfortable, as though she had looked inside him and found him lacking. Placing the envelope on the edge of the desk nearest her, he stood.

"Come now, miss, it's your money. Take it and leave. I'll have my butler show you out."

He crossed to the tapestry bellpull in the corner, but before he could touch it, her voice hissed at him. It was laden with contempt, all traces of the accent of the street erased.

"I don't want that money. I don't want anything from you or your son."

Simon's expression betrayed his surprise.

"You weren't expecting me to refuse, were you? You're both alike, the two of you." Once again the tears spilled over her lashes. "It doesn't even occur to you that there might be a human being with feelings standing in front of you. It doesn't occur to you that things aren't always what they seem. Keep your money. I don't need it."

With those words, she straightened her shoulders and walked proudly toward the library door.

Simon watched the girl's straight back as she crossed the room. Her honesty and dignity moved him, her diction puzzled him; he felt a strange reluctance to let her go. As she reached the door his voice rang out, abrupt and commanding.

"Stay right there. I want to talk to you."

She ignored him; her hand stretched out for the knob.

"Please." The word was out before Simon knew it.

She turned to him. For the first time he could see a questioning in her eyes, an unsureness.

"Please," he repeated, crossing to her, "I apologize for my rudeness. I would appreciate it if you would stay for a few moments and talk with me."

Noelle hesitated briefly and then nodded her consent.

"Please sit down. Over here by the fire so we can be comfortable." He escorted her to a thickly cushioned sofa. "Tea?"

She paused a moment and then said, "Yes, thank you." Sitting gracefully, her back straight, she eyed him warily. He reminded her of his son. They had the same arrogant profile.

Simon strode to the bellpull, gave a firm yank, and returned to Noelle, settling himself in a chair opposite her. He took a moment to study her more closely. It was hard to imagine, but perhaps, with proper food and decent clothing, she might look less absurd.

"I didn't hear your name," he began tentatively.

"My name is Noelle Dorian." She spoke softly but watched him intently as though his reaction were a test of some kind.

"Pretty." For the first time, he saw a flicker of a smile cross her face. "Were your parents French?"

"No. My mother was English, but she loved everything French. She died seven years ago."

"Seven years ago! You couldn't have been much more than a baby. What about your father? Is he still living?"

"I expect so. At least, if all Daisy's stories were true."

"Daisy?"

"My mother. She was an actress when she was young. She used to tell me how my father was rich and handsome, one of the nobility." Suddenly Noelle was embarrassed. Why was she telling him all this? "But then, you don't want to hear me go on. Besides, Daisy wasn't above telling a few clankers. It probably wasn't true at all."

Simon wondered. Was it really so unlikely that a girl like this could have been fathered by an aristocrat? There was a certain dignity about her.

"Who took care of you after your mother's death?"

She looked genuinely bewildered. "Why, I took care of myself. Who else would?"

"But you were only a child."

"I wasn't all that young. I was ten."

"You rang for me, sir?" The butler's voice startled Noelle. She had not heard him enter.

"Yes, Tomkins. The young lady would like some tea. Serve it in here." Simon dismissed him and turned back to Noelle, as if there had been no interruption.

"So you're seventeen now."

"Almost eighteen."

"And you've been on your own since you were ten?" He shook his head in puzzlement and spoke almost to himself. "The English are a truly incredible people. They believe they are the only ones fit to govern the rest of the world, but they can't even tend to the injustices on their own doorstep."

"Here, now," Noelle cried, lifting her small chin. "Don't you say anything bad about the English, especially since you're an American."

"Oh, and what's wrong with being an American?" Simon was amused by her patriotic indignation.

"Why, they're savages," she sniffed haughtily. "Walking around practically naked with paint smeared all over their faces."

Simon chuckled. "Noelle, I think you picked an unfortunate example."

"What do you mean by that?" she questioned suspiciously.

Simon did not respond. Instead, he reached out and gently stroked her hollow cheek, showing her his scarlet-stained fingers. Then his eyes traveled briefly to her décolletage. "Practically naked with paint smeared all over their faces?"

Noelle looked in his eyes and saw them twinkling humorously. An angry retort sprang to her lips, but something in his face stopped her. Just as she had earlier judged him, she saw that he was now waiting for her reaction, testing her. He had made a joke at her expense, but she sensed instinctively that he was not mocking her. Her anger left her as abruptly as it had come, and she suddenly laughed, producing a merry tinkling sound that delighted Simon.

The American businessman and the English pickpocket smiled companionably at each other for several moments before Noelle realized she had carelessly let down her guard. Chiding herself, she quickly dropped her gaze and studied a ragged seam that formed an angry V in the skirt of her garment.

The silence lengthened, but she was determined she would not be the one to break it.

"Would you tell me how you've managed since you were ten?" Simon yearned to ask her how long she had been prostituting herself but couldn't think how to frame the words and did not want to challenge her stubborn pride.

"For the first few years I was a mudlark."

"Mudlark? What in God's name is that?"

"You don't know what a mudlark is?" Noelle was astonished that a man of Simon's wealth and station should be so ignorant.

"No, I'm afraid not." Simon smiled. "There are some gaps in my education. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to fill in this one."

"Why, the mudlarks go to the riverbanks and gather pieces of coal to sell in the streets. I was the only girl mudlark in London," Noelle boasted.

Simon looked suitably impressed. "And how did you accomplish that remarkable feat?"

Hesitantly Noelle began to tell Simon of her early days. He listened intently, totally absorbed in her narrative. Before she knew it, she was speaking of her times with Sweeney Pope and of his tragic death. Although she hardly spoke of Daisy, from the few remarks she did make, Simon was able to obtain a fairly accurate picture of her relationship with her mother. He was most interested to learn that Daisy had been a demimonde, not an old street crone as he had first imagined, for the germ of an idea was beginning to take root in his mind.

"When I was twelve, I knew I couldn't pass as a boy much longer, so I had to find another trade."

Simon leaned slightly forward in his chair. There was a tenseness about his handsome mouth; he found himself unexpectedly reluctant to hear what he knew she was going to tell him. It suddenly mattered to him very much that this spirited young girl was supporting herself as a prostitute. But the story Simon heard was not the one he expected.

Instead, Noelle told him how she had become a pickpocket, describing the old coat she had hung above her head in the tiny corner where she slept. She spoke of her hours of practice while the others who shared her cramped quarters were asleep-pulling a handkerchief out of various pockets, trying not to move the coat. For weeks she had repeated the movements until she was finally satisfied. Then she had substituted a smaller piece of cloth. Finally a stone that lay deeper in the pocket.

Noelle's forehead puckered as she remembered the months of practice. "That was a long time ago," she said, her tone dry. "Since then I've established a reputation for myself." Looking him squarely in the eye, she challenged, "Some say I'm the best pickpocket in Soho."

Simon swallowed hard at this. She seemed to have no conscience, no sense of having done anything wrong. My God, was she as proud of being a prostitute as she was of her times as a pickpocket?

Noelle defied his silent censure. "I didn't have any other choice, you know. It was picking pockets or being a whore, and nothing could ever make me be a whore." A shadow crossed her face. "Nothing, that is, until your son came along."

"My son!" Simon exclaimed. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I understand what you just told me." His eyes took in her costume. "Are you saying, then, that you are not a…a prostitute?"

"Mr. Copeland," she said softly, "until last night, I was a virgin. I only dress like this to distract the men so I can pick their pockets."

Simon was incredulous. What had Quinn done to this child? Although he barely knew her, he did not doubt her, for he knew his son too well. Somehow she had become entangled in Quinn's net of revenge, an unwilling victim who had been deeply injured.

He got up from his chair and settled himself beside her on the sofa. "Tell me what happened, Noelle."

Noelle looked into his handsome face. She did not want his pity, but he deserved to know what kind of man his son was.

She told her story ferociously, as if the telling alone would ease her anguish; it poured from her. As she repeated the conversation she had overheard between Thomas and Quinn, Simon's face set into hard, chiseled planes, and she was once again struck by the resemblance between father and son, especially as she saw a ruthlessness in the older man's face that had been absent before.

When Noelle described pulling a knife on his son, Simon felt a brief moment of regret that she had not found her mark. My God, he'd like to kill Quinn himself for this! Noelle had a good memory and could accurately repeat most of Quinn's discussion with Thomas about marrying her. Simon appreciated what Noelle did not really understand-the stunning perfection of Quinn's revenge.

Was it so wrong for a man to take pride in his name? Simon wondered. To want that name to be respected? What was so absurd about asking Quinn to marry a woman of grace and breeding who would bear proud sons to carry on the Copeland name? God damn it! Quinn had made Simon's honest aspirations seem foolish and pretentious.

The idea that had been only the faintest impulse before began to take shape in his mind. If this was the kind of game Quinn was going to play, he would soon find out that he had badly underestimated his opponent.

Noelle's voice faltered as she began to speak of her arrival at Quinn's lodgings.

"You don't have to tell me about this if it's too painful." Simon spoke more gruffly than he had intended, but he did not want to hear any more.

"I have to tell you. You're his father." Noelle looked at him levelly, but not accusingly. "Whatever happened between the two of you has spilled over and poisoned me."

Again, her voice faltered, catching in her throat, but she was going to tell him, make him understand. She would speak about this ugliness she had kept hidden for so long. Only then could he really understand what had happened to her last night. She clenched her fists and dug her torn fingernails into her palms.

"After a while, Daisy's mind… She wasn't right in her head. She'd bring men back to our room. Lie with them. And they'd hurt her. They'd hit her and… and do things to her. She'd sometimes beg and cry. Other times, she wouldn't even make a sound, just lie there. I knew then that I'd never let a man touch me. That's why I carried my knife." Her eyes bored into Simon's. "I want you to know that I would have killed him and laughed when he died."

Simon made no visible reaction to her savage pronouncement. "Go on," he said. Now he wanted to hear it all, know the truth of what his son had done. He wanted to hear the worst so he could justify the revenge he knew he was going to take.

Noelle would not meet his eyes. She stared past him and continued her story. "He ripped off my clothes and told me to take a bath. I've dreamed of a bath like that as long as I can remember. Hot water with the steam coming up from it, soap that smelled so good, you almost wanted to taste it." She laughed, but there was no merriment in the sound.

"I was unlucky enough to have my dream come true. I had my bath all right, but with him sitting there, watching me with eyes like the devil. He had his legs stretched out in front of him and was sipping his brandy as though he didn't have a care in the world. Just watching me as if I weren't even a real person, as though I had no feelings.

"Then he got up and turned out the light. He picked up the towel, threw it across the room out of my reach, and pulled me out of the tub. I tried to back away from him, to tell him I wasn't what he thought, but he wouldn't listen. I fought him, but he held my hands, pushed me onto the bed. Then he was all over me, ripping me apart." Her eyes were hard and bitter as she turned to face Simon. "Mr. Copeland, I know now that I'll die before I ever let any man touch me like that again."

Now it was Simon who would not look at her. He stood and walked to the book cases that stretched the width of the library. Running his index finger down the spine of one of the leather- bound volumes, he finally spoke, his voice filled with emotion.

"Noelle, what happened with you and my son was ugly and twisted. It was an animal coupling, the act of a stallion mounting an unwilling mare only by virtue of his superior strength. But lovemaking between a man and a woman does not have to be like that. It can be beautiful and full of tenderness."

He turned toward her, but he no longer saw her; another face swam before him. He saw warm dark eyes and hair like rippling black silk. "Some will say that only men enjoy the act of love." His voice rose with the depth of his conviction. "But that's a lie. I have seen such joy on the face of a woman that I knew it shone from her heart. It was magical, something to be treasured forever."

Simon had revealed himself much more fully than he had intended, but it was all for nothing. He saw by Noelle's closed expression that it was useless to try to explain further. Her bitterness formed an unbreachable wall that encircled her. Once again he became businesslike as he crossed to her, his hands clasped behind his back.

"I will make no excuses for what my son did; it was unforgivable. It is inadequate to tell you that I'm sorry for what has happened, but I am. And I promise you, Noelle, that I am somehow going to make it up to you."

The door opened slowly and Tomkins entered. Refusing to acknowledge Noelle's presence by so much as a glance, he majestically placed a silver tray bearing a matching tea service on a small table near Simon and announced, "Mrs. Peale has just arrived, sir. I asked her to wait in the anteroom; however…"

"Oh, Tomkins, you old fusspot, there's no need to announce me."

The inimitable Constance Peale, as fresh as a breeze after a morning rain, floated into the library with a swish of ruffles and black silk. Although the appropriate color, her dress could only be categorized as proper mourning attire by the broadest definition. Its revealing décolletage was covered with the sheerest film of black gauze. The overbodice was gathered at the base of her slim neck into layers of lacy ruff.

Her hair was bright auburn with many curls and ribbons. There were several malicious gossips who hinted that a woman of forty-five could not possibly have hair that particular shade of red without resorting to henna. It was a mark of Constance's popularity that the gossips found few willing to listen.

In point of fact, she was not really a beautiful woman at all. Her features were pleasant, but certainly not distinguished. Instead, it was the animation of her personality, her charm and vitality, that had been known to quicken the heartbeats of gentlemen many years her junior.

Despite the frivolity of her mourning attire, Constance's grief for her dead husband was deep and heartfelt. She had loved him since she was little more than a child, and his passing had left a painful void in her life. She hid her sorrow well, however, and few comprehended the depth of her suffering.

"Simon, my dear." Her voice was low and melodic. "It really is dreadful to descend on you like this, but I needed-" She faltered momentarily at the sight of Noelle, and then her green eyes began to twinkle with amusement. "I had no idea you were entertaining, Simon." Tipping her elegant head slightly to the side, she regarded him with exaggerated innocence. "I do hope my untimely arrival has not interrupted anything."

Smothering his irritation, Simon kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek. "You're always welcome, Connie." He could not resist using the nickname that he knew she detested. Drat the woman! Why did she have to appear now?

Just then, the last piece of the puzzle he had been trying to fit together in his mind fell into place, and he knew what he had to do.

"Let's go to the drawing room, where you can be more comfortable, Connie. We can finish our business there. Tomkins, please pour tea for the young lady. Noelle, if you'll excuse me."

Not waiting for Constance to protest, Simon hustled her from the library and led her to the drawing room. He was thinking furiously as he walked, weighing his options. His chances of pulling it off were so slim as to be almost nonexistent, but still, what other choice did he have?

When they arrived in the drawing room, which had been gracefully decorated à la chinoise, Constance disengaged Simon's hand from her arm.

"Simon, do stop pushing me so. I have long known you were a most vexatious man, but until now I never suspected you lacked the niceties of polite behavior. Much more of this and I shall have the vapors!" She sank eloquently onto a small lacquered chair, her hand resting gracefully over her heart.

"The vapors!" Simon's handsome face split with laughter. "Connie, you wouldn't know how to have the vapors if you tried."

"Of course I would. It's all a matter of holding one's breath. Now, do stop calling me that ridiculous name-you know I detest it-and tell me what is happening here. Really, Simon, I know men have their animal needs, but that child is frightfully ugly. Besides," she sniffed daintily, "I have always imagined you satisfied your baser cravings among the ladies of the demimonde, not with a common tart."

"My baser cravings, as you call them, Constance, are none of your concern. However, I will tell you that I have never been so desperate that I had to resort to an alliance with a streetwalker."

As much as Constance would have enjoyed pursuing this topic in greater depth, her curiosity about Simon's visitor overcame her. "Then who on earth is that person, and what is she doing here?"

"That person, Connie, is Quinn's wife," Simon said quietly.

"His wife!" All the ribbons in her auburn curls jerked at once. "You can't be serious!"

"I'm quite serious. They were married last night."

"But why? Quinn could marry any woman he chooses. He has everything. He is handsome, wealthy. He can be charming when it suits him. Why on earth? Surely he did not fall in love with her!"

"Don't be ridiculous. He'd never seen her until last night."

"Then why?"

"Revenge, Connie." Simon smiled wryly. "Like an avenging angel, he has smitten me."

"Do spare me your metaphors and explain yourself in a forthright manner, Simon. But first, please pour me a small glass of sherry. I daresay I'm going to need it." With this, she settled herself comfortably, crossed her dainty ankles, and listened intently as Simon told Noelle's story.

Quinn had made several passing references to Constance about Simon's preoccupation with having him marry well. At the time, she had paid little attention; conflicts between Simon and Quinn were so frequent that she had become inured to them. Now, as Simon spoke, she realized how seriously she had misjudged both Simon's persistence and Quinn's resentment. She loved that tiresome boy so. How could he have behaved like such a barbarian? Ever since Benjamin and she had cared for him when he was thirteen and Simon had sent him to school in England, he had held a special place in her heart.

"He raped her," Simon said as he finished his story. "Brutally and without compassion."

Constance felt tears of pity for the bedraggled little pickpocket and for Quinn come to her green eyes. "Oh, Simon, he would never have behaved so if he hadn't mistaken her for a prostitute."

"Don't delude yourself. You know he's always been stubborn and high-handed."

Constance thought of another Copeland man who possessed the same characteristics but wisely kept the observation to herself.

"There is no denying the fact that he has a wildness in his nature that he does not always keep in check," Simon continued. "Of course, I doubt that he would have forced himself on her if he hadn't been drunk and mistaken her for a prostitute. But it's still no excuse for what he did. Besides, he certainly wasn't drunk when he delivered her here this morning, along with his resignation from Copeland and Peale."

"His resignation? Oh, Simon, no."

Constance's distress was justified, and they both knew it. Quinn's knowledge of ships was encyclopedic. He had a kinship with the raw materials of the industry, the wood and metal; an innate understanding of their strengths and limitations. He never attempted to force a new concept on the materials. Instead, he began with the materials and let the concept grow from them. It was Constance's belief that Quinn's creative imagination combined with Simon's keen business sense could have made Copeland and Peale invulnerable. Now all that was lost.

"He will not find it as easy as he thinks to turn his back on Copeland and Peale," Simon insisted.

"Where is Quinn now?" Constance asked, more calmly than she felt.

"I have no idea. But he'll turn up eventually, just like a bad penny."

Constance saw the trenchant pain in Simon's eyes and knew intuitively that his bitterness was directed as much at himself as at the son he couldn't understand.

"And when he does reappear, I plan to have a little surprise waiting for him."

Constance frowned. "What kind of surprise?"

It was then that Simon unveiled the desperate plan that had formed itself almost unconsciously in his mind. "When he returns, he'll have a true Copeland bride waiting for him, ready to take her place in the Copeland family."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Constance asked, abruptly setting down her glass on a small enameled end table.

"I am talking about the malnourished child in the library. Quinn has seen to it that I cannot have his marriage annulled. She's his legal wife. Therefore, she'll have to become worthy of the name Copeland."

Looking at him in astonishment, Constance began to laugh. Simon drew his brows together and glowered at her. Although she tried valiantly to suppress her merriment, she was not wholly successful.

"Oh, posh, Simon, don't fly into a temper. It was unkind of me to laugh, and I do apologize, but really, it's too absurd. I begin to fear that you are in your dotage."

In his dotage, was he? Simon could feel his temper rise. Damnation but she was an exasperating woman! Since the first time they had met when she was a beautiful bride many years younger than her husband, they had been at odds. As the years passed they saw each other only infrequently, but no matter how seldom they met, the sparks continued to fly.

Watching the two of them spar, Benjamin had once smiled fondly at his partner and said, "Simon, you should have married her. Perhaps you could have tamed her, for I gave up long ago."

Simon had shuddered inwardly. There was no denying the fact that Constance was a damned attractive woman, but he preferred women who were more serious, women who were respectful of the opinions of men far more knowledgeable than they. Now he must take pains not to antagonize her. With an effort, he smiled stiffly.

"Why is it so absurd, Constance? You forget that I have spent some time with her. The girl has a natural intelligence that even her shabbiness can't hide. Remember that her father was a member of the nobility."

"Really, Simon," Constance cried in exasperation. "You don't know that for certain."

"You only have to watch her closely to know it's true," he exclaimed as he began to pace about the room, trying to convince himself as he convinced her. "She carries herself proudly. She has dignity, intelligence. All of these things speak of good blood. She only needs some polishing to bring it out."

"Polishing!" Constance began to feel faintly alarmed; Simon was in earnest. As infuriating as he could be, she did not want to see him made to look ridiculous.

Rising from her chair, she crossed to him in a swish of ebony silk and placed her hand on his arm. She regarded him levelly, her voice grave. "Not only does she lack any semblance of beauty, but she is undoubtedly woefully ignorant. Why, I doubt that she can even read."

Simon regarded her stonily. "It doesn't matter."

Constance opened her mouth to respond, but Simon would have none of it. "All of that can be easily remedied, Constance. A tutor can be engaged to teach her how to read and instruct her in the rudiments of geography and history."

Indignantly Constance remonstrated. "In faith, Simon, it will take a bit more than teaching her the location of the Baltic Sea and the date of the Battle of Hastings to make her acceptable to society. And if something could be done about her unfortunate appearance, which I heartily doubt, she would still have to be taught to speak properly."

"She speaks beautifully," Simon interrupted. "Much better than would be expected."

"Regardless, Simon, I'm sure her diction would never pass in the drawing room. She needs to know how to manage a household, play the piano, do needlework, dance a quadrille." She ticked off each item on her fingers. "It quite staggers the mind. Even you, Simon, must own that you'd be hard pressed to find a tutor capable of teaching all that. Young women learn so many of these things unconsciously as they watch their mothers."

"Exactly!" Simon exploded triumphantly. Gently placing his hands on her upper arms, he looked down on her small form. "Those are the things only a woman of grace and breeding can teach, a woman such as yourself, Constance."

The spirited widow studied him for several moments as she absorbed his intention and finally declared, "No, Simon, I will not hear of it." She took several steps away and turned her back to him. "I have sometimes found it necessary to disagree with you on business matters, but I have never thought you lacking in common sense. I now begin to wonder."

Constance's voice was adamant, but if the truth be known, her mind was not yet closed on the matter. Although she would barely admit it even to herself, she was a lonely woman. The last few years, during which she had contended with Benjamin's failing health, had been difficult ones for her. Despite her frivolity, she was still an undeniably sensuous woman, and the celibacy that had become her lot was unnatural to her. Her body had begun to rebel; she ached to be held and caressed. She had even thought of taking a lover, but somehow the idea was repugnant to her, for she knew a casual coupling would not still the longings she felt. Of late, it had become more and more difficult for her to sleep. Perhaps if she had something to fill her days and occupy her mind, her nights would once again be peaceful.

She made her voice deliberately casual. "Simon, I must own I am curious. Just what is your plan, and how did you intend to include me?"

Simon wished Constance's back were not turned to him so he could see her face. What was she up to? Casually he walked to the settee opposite her and settled himself, carefully watching her face as he spoke.

"I would like you to take her home with you to Sussex. See to it that she has proper clothing and nourishment, and begin to instruct her in deportment. When you think the time is right, hire a qualified tutor for her academic instruction. I know it will take some time, but I have every confidence that within a year she can be transformed into a socially acceptable young woman."

"A year! Oh, Simon, I fear you overestimate her intelligence and my abilities." Constance was thoughtful for several moments, and Simon did not attempt to rush her. She walked almost aimlessly about the room, stopping once to straighten a vase. Finally she sat next to Simon on the settee.

"Let's assume for a moment that this improbable scheme of yours is successful and you actually manage to make her presentable. What then?"

"I intend to have her presented to society."

Constance's eyes widened. "You intend to present her as his wife?"

"No, of course not. She'll be my…my niece. No, that won't do. I don't want her to be a blood relative." He thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "I have it. We'll say that my brother married a young widow with a small child. She is that child."

"It's absurd, Simon," Constance argued. "You don't even have a brother. You have no assurance you can find Quinn. And, if you do, how do you then propose to convince him to assume his position as a husband?"

"Oh, I'll find him, rest assured of that." The determined set of his jaw told Constance that he would have no scruples at all about using force against Quinn. "As for convincing him-keep in mind, Constance, that it is one thing to abandon a child of the street with no family or protection; it is quite another to abandon a woman of breeding and grace who has been recognized by society. Quinn is a rogue, but even he wouldn't go that far. The two will meet and then I'll arrange for them to simply disappear from sight for several days. The news will leak out that they have eloped-a case of love at first sight. I, of course, will be properly outraged over their scandalous behavior. Everyone will sympathize with me, cluck their tongues, and be secretly delighted to find a couple so much in love they could not wait to be married properly. Within a month the scandal will be forgotten, and Quinn's bachelor existence will be a thing of the past."

"I don't like it, Simon," Constance declared. "Meddling in other people's lives is a dangerous pastime."

"It's the only way," Simon replied, firmly repressing his own doubts. "Quinn's wildness has gone unchecked for too long. He'll destroy himself." Simon was not above taking advantage of Constance's soft heart, and he did so now without a qualm.

"Constance, as a father who loves his son, I need your help. If you have any feeling at all for Quinn, remember that this may be his last chance."

Constance was not fooled by Simon's attempt at playing on her sympathies, but she did not call him to task for it. Instead, she asked the question that was now uppermost in her mind.

"What of the girl, Simon? From all you have said about her, she seems a most independent sort. Perhaps she won't go along with your scheme."

Simon had some doubts about this himself, but it wouldn't do to show weakness now. "Nonsense, Constance. It will be an opportunity the likes of which she has never dreamed possible." He paused, and his blue eyes narrowed slightly. "Besides, if she does protest, I believe I will be able to persuade her."

Constance looked at him keenly; he was holding back. "Simon, you are an unprincipled wretch. Not an hour ago you vowed to that child that you would protect her, and here you are single-mindedly plotting to reunite her with a man she obviously detests."

"Really, Constance, a year of luxury can't help but change her attitude. She'll regain her health and discover the advantages there are to being a Copeland. Do you seriously believe that she will turn her back on Quinn once she has been exposed to our way of life and sees how marriage will benefit her? Of course not."

He took Constance's hands in his and there was no subterfuge in his voice as he implored, "I know I can make this work. Please help me, Constance. Other than keeping Copeland and Peale secure in our two families, there's not much else in it for you. I know that. But you will have my perpetual gratitude. Please, will you help me?"

Her old antagonist was asking for help, and she had to admit that, for one so self-sufficient, he certainly did it splendidly. Raising her hands in a gesture of surrender, she smiled.

"In truth, Simon, you've worn me down, although I am undoubtedly a peagoose to have fallen in with you."

Simon slapped the palms of his hands together and laughed jubilantly.

Wagging a finger at him, Constance continued, "Do not for a moment think I am such a ninny as to enter into this May game of yours without issuing several provisos with which I expect your full compliance." Her voice was crisp and efficient, at odds with the fluttering ribbons and lace that bedecked her. "Financially, you are to be responsible for any and all expenses incurred during her stay. I will be the sole judge of the necessities of her wardrobe, and, I warn you, Simon, there will be no skimping."

"Agreed." Simon grinned as he triumphantly paced the perimeter of the Aubusson carpet.

"Simon, do stop moving about! This situation is difficult enough without forcing me to address the back of your head.

"I have one further condition. You are not to interfere with any of my methods. I will proceed in my own way and will brook no intervention from you. Is that understood?"

"Yes, yes." More like a boy of nineteen than a mature man of fifty, Simon pulled Constance up from her chair and enveloped her in an effusive hug.

His tiny business partner found herself clasped against his chest, the woolen of his morning coat pressing her cheek. Involuntarily her hands moved to his back, and she closed her eyes, drinking in the joy of once again having a man's arms encircle her. She breathed in the scent of him as her hands tentatively touched the muscles of his back. She wanted to feel his skin without the encumbrance of clothing, run her hands down his naked body, to…

Her eyes flew open. Really! What on earth was she thinking of! Hurriedly she extricated herself, snapping at him angrily, "Simon, I fear you have lost your sense. You will crush me, you wretched man."

Simon grinned at her, too overjoyed by her acquiescence to take umbrage with her scolding. "I apologize, Connie. I forgot myself."

Noelle sucked on her index finger to wet it and then dipped it experimentally into the sugar bowl. She licked off the crystals, savoring their sweetness, and ignoring a snowy napkin that lay carefully folded next to the silver pot, wiped her damp finger on the skirt of her dress.

During the absence of Simon and Constance, Noelle had finished two cups of tea, each of which she had fortified with several heaping teaspoons of sugar, and had devoured every crumb of a pair of buttery scones. Despite her large breakfast, she had eaten as if each bite were her last, but she could not seem to help herself.

At the same time she was licking her finger, her greedy eyes were consuming the elegant room. If Simon could have read Noelle's thoughts, he would have been delighted, because she was unconsciously proving that his instincts were right. She knew she looked cheap and out of place in the midst of such elegance, but she did not feel out of place. This gracious room, so foreign to her existence, felt more comfortable to her than any place she had ever been in her life. She loved the way the draperies looped above the windows, the warm colors of the carpet, the symmetry of the two chairs that flanked the library door. Her eyes approved the plasterwork of the ceiling and caressed a porcelain vase that was filled with early daffodils.

She yearned to touch it, feel the fine glass with her fingers, but she did not go near the beautiful vase, afraid that Simon Copeland would enter the room and see her coveting it. And why do you care what he thinks? she scoffed at herself, biting nervously on her thumbnail. Why was she still here anyway? The door was unlocked; there was nothing holding her.

But Noelle knew she wasn't ready to leave just yet. There was something about Simon Copeland that had stirred a deep, responsive chord inside her. She thought of his face, so like his son's, but somehow softened. And this woman, Constance. Who was she? What did she have to do with all this?

As if Noelle had conjured her, Constance entered the room, shuddering inwardly as she took a closer look at her new charge. She paused inside the door to wait for Simon, who followed almost immediately. Noelle was instantly struck by the handsome picture they presented: Simon Copeland, so tall and powerfully masculine, and Constance Peale, tiny and feminine.

"Noelle, I want you to meet Mrs. Peale, widow of my business partner. Constance, my daughter-in-law, Noelle."

Daughter-in-law! Noelle was incredulous. Simon was openly acknowledging the relationship between them to this sophisticated woman. Her eyes flew to his questioningly, but he merely quirked a dark eyebrow at her in what she could only read as a challenge.

Lifting her chin, she rose gracefully from her chair and met Constance's assessing gaze levelly. She would show him!

A spark of admiration flashed in the eyes of the older woman. Simon had been right. There was an air about this girl that transcended her ridiculous appearance. Her voice was soft and warm as she approached Noelle.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, my dear. Simon is quite taken with you, and I can surely see why."

Was this woman making fun of her? Noelle wondered. What was behind her honeyed words? She was out of her natural element among these people. On the streets, she knew her enemies. But here, an enemy could hide behind a polite smile. Well, she would play by their rules, she thought, as she returned Constance's smile with one of her own, but she would be on her guard.

"Noelle, I have asked Constance to join us so we may talk about your future."

Noelle felt her face burn. "You told her about me?" she burst out angrily.

Attempting to forestall the attack that he knew was coming, Simon pushed Noelle gently down on the settee, his eyes boring into hers. "Listen to me, Noelle. What happened to you is not your shame; it is Quinn's. Constance has been a friend for years. There was no way I could keep this from her, nor did I want to because I think she can help you."

Noelle lifted her small chin defiantly. "I don't need help from no-anybody."

"But you do, you know." Simon spoke softly and regarded her so kindly that Noelle felt some of her anger at his betrayal dissolve. "You have been through a great deal since last night. You need some time to rest. I could never forgive myself, my dear, if anything happened to you now while you're so upset. You also need some time to think about what you're going to do with your life. You don't have to go back to the streets again, you know."

Simon could see that his words were having an effect on Noelle. Suppressing the urgency he felt rising within, he kept his voice smooth and even. "Mrs. Peale has invited you to stay with her at her estate in Sussex. Since she is still in mourning for her husband, her life is quiet, and you'll be able to get the rest you must have."

Noelle set her jaw stubbornly. "You have no right making arrangements for me. I've taken care of myself this long without anyone's help. I don't need charity from either of you."

"I would hardly call it charity, Noelle," Simon protested.

"And just what would you call it?" she retorted. "Or does Mrs. Peale make it a habit of inviting pickpockets to stay with her?"

"I really don't think-" Simon began, but Noelle interrupted him angrily.

"I can see her now, introducing me to one of her grand friends." With uncanny accuracy Noelle imitated the voice of a society matron. "Millicent, I'd like you to meet my house guest. Quite an interesting girl. Hooks watches, you know."

This last was too much for Constance, who had been watching the sparring between Noelle and Simon with great interest. Her silvery laughter rang out.

"Oh, dear, Simon, she does have you there. I fear you've met your match."

"Do be quiet, Connie," Simon snapped. Damn the woman! If she wasn't going to be helpful, she could at least keep her mouth shut. He calculated his next move.

"It seems you still don't grasp your circumstances," he said harshly.

"What do you mean by that?"

"You may be carrying Quinn's child, you know."

Noelle felt as though she had been slapped. A tremor shot through her thin body.

Simon moved in quickly. "I see you hadn't thought of that. Well, perhaps it's time you did." His voice was wintry as he began his attack. "Do you want your child raised as you were? Grubbing about in the mud for a lump of coal?" He drew his lips into a sneer. "How old will the child be before you hang up a coat and train him to be a pickpocket?"

Noelle's face drained of all color, but Simon did not ease his assault. "Of course, it won't be so bad if you have a boy. It's easier for boys to survive. But what if it's a girl? Perhaps she won't be as lucky as you've been. I understand there are noblemen who are convinced that deflowering a virgin will cure them of the French pox. They're willing to pay as much as a hundred pounds for one. Do you want that to happen to a child of yours?"

"Stop it!" Noelle screamed. "Stop it!" She buried her head in her hands, trying to collect herself. She had thought her nightmare was over, but now she saw that fate was not going to release its hold on her so easily.

Constance sprang angrily from her chair. "That's quite enough, Simon. You are being cruel, and I won't have it."

A biting retort died on Simon's lips, and he turned away.

Noelle felt herself enveloped in fragrant black silk. Constance's voice was calm and soothing. "You must understand, Noelle, that Simon is used to having his own way in all things. He is a businessman, and businessmen are afraid to speak from their hearts. Simon does not want to lose you now. Although he would never admit it, he admires fiery spirits. And, Noelle, he has a right to know if you are carrying his grandchild."

For a moment Constance felt a stab of guilt. In her own way, she knew she was manipulating the child just as much as Simon had been.

Slowly Noelle raised her face to Constance, hating the benevolence she saw there, hating the circumstances that were inexorably bending her proud spirit to the protection of these two people. "I don't seem to have much choice, do I?" she said bitterly.

They had won; she was going to have to do as they suggested until she discovered if she was going to have a child. But if they expected her to be fawning in her gratitude, they were due for a rude surprise.

"If I do as you say, I want your promise that you will tell no one that I am married to Mr. Copeland's son."

Constance nodded her assent.

"Also, I will only stay until I know if I am going to have a child, then you will immediately return me to London."

Constance forestalled the protest she could see Simon preparing to voice. "Fair enough, my dear. Now, let's find something a bit more suitable for you to wear." Turning to Simon, Constance said, "I wish to leave within the hour. Will you see that I have fresh horses?"

Nodding his assent, Simon left the room quickly, well satisfied with the turn of events.

The two women regarded each other levelly for several moments. Finally Constance spoke with some satisfaction. "I think we shall get along together very well, don't you?"

But Noelle did not respond. Somehow she knew it was not going to be quite that easy. Nothing in life came free of charge; sooner or later she would be expected to pay the price. What it would be she did not know, but of its inevitability she was certain.