Bloomsbury, LondonApril 1877

Simon Marlton, Viscount Adler, stretched out on the bed next to his mistress. With a coquettish smile, Vivian fanned her ginger hair over the white silk counterpane and arched her back, drawing his attention to her body, visible through her sheer peignoir.

The movement should have excited him. It didn't. He knew what was coming next.

"Whom shall we play tonight?" Vivian asked, running her finger over his bare chest to the waistband of his trousers. "Romeo and Juliet or Antony and Cleopatra? We could be wicked and do an adaptation of The Vampire. You could be the bloodthirsty lord and I the poor dairy wench you seduce in the forest."

Simon gritted his teeth. He sorely regretted engaging an actress as his mistress, especially one between plays. He should have chosen a dancer, some limber woman who didn't feel the need to direct every sexual encounter, or plot it to death. And surely not one who screamed Encore! Encore! while she climaxed.

One more night of Vivian and he might play Cassius and throw himself down upon a sword. "When are you to begin rehearsals for your new play at the Lyceum?"

She twisted a shimmering tendril around her finger and pouted. "Sir Henry wants to do Hamlet. It offers few worthy female roles, though I would make a remarkable Ophelia." She sat up and dramatically flung her arms wide. "'O, what a noble mind is here —'"

"When will it begin?" he asked.

"Not for several months. I shall be bored senseless." She placed the back of her hand theatrically to her forehead and sank onto the pillows.

Good Lord, several months. Simon stifled a groan.

Vivian propped herself up on her elbow and lifted her glass of claret off the bedside table. "Adler, why don't you invite some guests to your country house? We could put on a play."

Eating pigswill held more appeal. How foolish to think the actress's company would settle the discontent plaguing him as of late. Perhaps a short reprieve from Vivian would put her in a more favorable light.

"How about a holiday in Paris?" he asked.

She sat up so abruptly, her wine spilled. Red droplets glistened on the pristine counterpane. She blotted them with the edge of her translucent garment, smearing the red into the bedcover. "How lovely! When do we set sail?"

We? Good God, no. He'd jump ship before they sighted land. "I have business to attend to in Town."

"I can wait so we can journey to France together. On the ship you could play Blackbeard and I the noblewoman you have kidnapped."

A nerve twitched in his jaw. "No."

"Redbeard?"

"There must be a ship leaving Dover tomorrow," he said, ignoring her suggestion.

"Tomorrow?" A small line formed between her thin brows.

"Yes, while there you could do a bit of shopping. Visit that Charles Worth fellow who is all the rage. Purchase yourself a few gowns."

Her hazel eyes widened. "Gowns?"

"Yes. My carriage will take you to Victoria station first thing in the morning."

* * *

Emma Trafford tapped softly on her sister's bedchamber door and inched it open. A single candle on a bedside table sent scant light into the dark room. Lily, dressed in a white cotton nightgown, stood before the window, her blond hair and slender twelve-year-old body illuminated by moonlight.

"Lily?" Emma whispered.

With a gasp, Lily spun around and tucked a pair of opera glasses behind her back.

Why, the little hoyden! If that gossipmonger across the street saw Lily spying upon her, the whole of Bloomsbury would know before daybreak.

"Are you watching Mrs. Jenkins?"

"Indeed not. One could expire from boredom observing her snooze all day."

Emma released the air in her lungs and glanced out the window. The London sky was absent its perpetual fog. Perhaps Lily had turned her mind to more intellectual pursuits. "Were you observing the constellations?"

"Ah ... yes, indeed, the stars." Lily nibbled her lower lip.

One day, when they were old and gray, Emma would reveal to her sister that Lily always bit her lower lip when she lied. "No, you were not. Now confess."

Lily shuffled her bare feet. Even in the dim light, Emma could see the two red spots on her sister's porcelain cheeks. "I'm observing the woman who recently moved into the town house next to Mrs. Jenkins. Have you seen her? She looks to be your age, perhaps a bit older. She wears feathered hats and gowns with huge bustles. Late at night, a fine carriage pulls up and an exceedingly tall gentleman enters the house."

"You were spying on them?" Emma tried to keep the shrill tone from her voice.

"Well, tonight they didn't close their shutters, and I was ever so curious."

Emma gasped. "Lily, that's scandalous."

"Ha! If you think I'm scandalous, you should see them. Do you wish to hear what they wear to bed?"

She did, but before Emma could lie and say no, her sister barreled forward. "The woman is dressed in a nightgown that barely hides her bosom. And the man, well, he's wearing just his drawers." Shock and titillation colored Lily's voice.

"Oh my goodness." Emma dashed to her sister's side and outstretched her hand. "Lillian Marie Trafford, give me those glasses. Now!"

Lily jutted out her bottom lip and handed over the opera glasses. "Em, the man has arms as thick as Titian's depiction of Mars. And he has the largest —"

Emma clapped a hand over her sister's mouth. She didn't know what Lily intended to say, but the child spent too many hours at the lending library examining books on Renaissance paintings, and Emma feared it wasn't a love of art that piqued Lily's interest.

"Not another word." Emma removed her hand.

"But he looks nothing like old Mr. Peabody when he drank too much punch at Mrs. Green's Christmas party and removed his shirt and trousers." Lily leaned close and spoke in a hushed tone. "He looks more like the paintings of the naked men on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. But larger. More powerful."

Oh my. Emma stifled the salacious images working their way through her mind.

"If you don't believe me, take a peek." Lily pointed at the window, her eyes bright.

The temptation to join her sister in wickedness tugged at Emma. She'd never seen a man wearing only his drawers. Well, except for Mr. Peabody, but his prune-like anatomy and pencil-thin legs hadn't impressed her in the least. And the one time she'd been intimate ... that had been a debacle she didn't wish to recall. She set the opera glasses on a table and drew the curtains closed.

"Get under the covers, and promise me you will not spy on the neighbors again. Especially those neighbors." She pulled her sister toward the bed.

With a sullen expression, Lily climbed under the blankets and folded her arms across her chest. "I promise."

Emma pressed a kiss to her sister's cheek. "Now sleep well, dearest, and blow out the candle as soon as I close the door."

Across the central corridor, Emma slipped into her bedchamber and padded to the window. The curtain rings rattled on the rod as she pulled the material closed. Unable to resist, she parted the fabric an inch and peered out. The town house across the way glowed like a balefire in the dark night. Their new neighbors certainly didn't want for money.

She moved away from the window. After she changed into her white cotton nightgown, she...