Page 53 of The Art of Sinning
“We should. I’ve got half a dozen names I could add to it.”
Yvette gaped at them. “You’re not seriously starting a club.”
Edwin crossed his arms over his chest. “We might. Why not? I have that property in Pall Mall we could use.”
“We could call it St. George’s,” Jeremy offered. “Since we’re fighting dragons.”
“Or at least finding out their secrets so wecanfight them.”
“Dragons have secrets?” she quipped. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re hunting unicorns for their horns.”
“Oh, we’re hunting for horns, all right,” Edwin said. “As many horns as we can lop off at the root before they impale someone precious to us.”
When both men burst into laughter, she just shook her head. She’d long ago lost the gist of this conversation.
It was only after they’d arrived at the ball and Edwin was helping her down that she remembered what “horn” was slang for in the street.
A man’s aroused penis.
Her blush flamed all the way into the Keane town house. Clearly she’d been collecting cant words far too long if she imagined they’d been talking about lopping off penises. That made no sense at all. No man wanted that.
She and Edwin and Jeremy were announced as “ashepherdess, the Earl of Blakeborough, and the Earl of Rochester.”
As they entered the ballroom, she said to Jeremy, “The Earl of Rochester? Why didn’t you choose a famous artist instead of a Cavalier poet?”
“If I’m going to dress up, I prefer to pick something out of character. It’s more fun.”
She snorted. “Well, he’s notthatdifferent from you in character. He did write a number of salacious poems.”
“I know.” He winked at her. “Why do you think I chose him?”
To her surprise, Edwin laughed. She shook her head, biting back a smile. Men could be such children, honestly.
The musicians struck up a reel.
With a glance at Edwin, Jeremy offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
“I would be honored, Lord Rochester.”
He chuckled and led her away. But as soon as they were out of Edwin’s hearing, he slowed his steps and made a pretense of looking for a safe spot to enter the floor.
“After our dance,” he murmured, “I shall ask my cousin for the next. While Zoe and I are on the floor, you should find a way to escape to the garden.” He craned his head, as if surveying the couples. “I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. I have a key to the garden gate. We’ll go out that way.”
“My, my, you must have sneaked out of the Keane town house undetected before. Clearly you’re a master at it.”
He shot her a quick glance. “No more a master than you are at sneaking about Stoke Towers late at night, my dear.”
“Touché.” She smiled ruefully and tugged on his arm. “We’d better dance, before Edwin gets suspicious.”
With a nod, he swept her onto the floor.
It took Jeremy longer than he’d expected to get away, partly because Zoe had peppered him with questions about his stay with Yvette and her brother. And partly because he’d stopped to ask Zoe’s husband, Tristan Bonnaud, co-owner of Manton’s Investigations, about a gentleman whose name Damber had churned up during his spying—Lieutenant Ruston.
Bonnaud hadn’t heard of the fellow, even in conjunction with Samuel Barlow. But the investigatorhadrevealed more about Barlow than Damber had learned. So much so that Jeremy had been loath to leave the ballroom until he heard it all.
Which was why he was late. He only prayed Yvette hadn’t grown tired of waiting for him and gone back inside, although that would certainly simplify matters. The closer he got to this meeting at the brothel, the worse he felt about going behind her brother’s back to help her. It seemed disloyal, now that he and Blakeborough were a bit more chummy.
When he first hurried into the garden, he feared that she had indeed given up, for he didn’t see her at all. The only person standing alone was a man in a domino costume—enveloping black cloak, a typical face mask, a pair of silver shoes peeking out from beneath—
