"Let me think about that," he said, never looking away from her face.

"And what about the Rules of the Pale?"

He'd felt such urgency before, but oddly, it wasn't prodding him now. Now he had time, since he had the key- namely, her. "Tell Grayson we will continue with it tomorrow afternoon."

She nodded. "I will also tell Grayson to invite a young lady to the theater this evening. He is very popular, you know. The young ladies think he is vastly romantic."

Miss Lorelei Kilbourne, eldest of Viscount Ramey's five daughters, born and raised in Northumberland and in London for her first season, had, until this night, only worshipped Grayson Sherbrooke from afar. Rosalind had met her several times, and managed to listen, without snorting, to the young lady's outpourings about Grayson's magnificent physical self, his ever so lovely blue eyes, the ever so charming way he smiled, and his equally brilliant books. So when Grayson shrugged and said he could think of no particular young lady to ask to the theater on such short notice, she presented Lorelei Kilbourne for his consideration. At his perfectly blank expression at the young lady's name, Rosalind punched him in the arm. "You are such an oblivious oaf. You've met her, Grayson. I believe you've even waltzed with her. Ask her, she adores you-admires you to the point of nausea. Even if she already has an engagement, I know she will break it for you."

"Hmmm," Grayson said. "Lorelei is a lovely name. Unusual. Strange that I don't remember it. I would like to ask her parents why they selected this particular name for her. Perhaps they thought of the sirens, perhaps-"

"Grayson, blessed hell, time grows short. Take yourself over to Kimberly Square and ask her. That's where she lives, at number twenty-three."

"She's the small girl? Shy, blushes a lot? Has glorious mink-colored hair?"

Mink? Trust a writer. "Yes, she's got the minkest-colored hair I've ever seen. Shy? Not with me, she wasn't shy. Not a single blush. Accept it, you're her hero. Go now."

Grayson laughed as he lightly touched a fingertip to her cheek. "Hmm, let me weigh this. Would I prefer to sit in a box next to a pretty girl who worships me… or to sit with loud, drunk, belching friends in the pit? This is very difficult. Ah, there are my parents sitting not two feet away from me, Rosalind. That doesn't make it so easy a question, now, does it?"

"You dolt, your parents will not be perched on your shoulder. They would not dream of disapproving of her, what with all the praise she will doubtless heap on your empty head. They'll probably join her, making you insufferable. Grayson, if you do not ask her, I will hurt you very badly. You know that I can."

Grayson remembered that long-ago day she'd lurked in the shadows on a second-floor balcony of Brandon House, waiting for him. When he'd walked below, whistling, minding his own business, she'd thrown a bucket of freezing soapy water on him, all because his ugly pug Jasper had chewed a pair of her Slippers and he'd had the nerve to laugh. "All right, I will go around and speak to her. Does that make you happy?"

"You don't have to marry her, Grayson, so don't sound so put-upon. But you know, now that I think about it, you're nearly ripe enough-as Uncle Douglas says-to manage being a decent husband. Shall I ask him?"

Grayson looked ready to run. Then he began to look thoughtful. "Lorelei," he said, studying the Grecian urn on the mantelpiece, "it rather sings on the tongue, don't you think?" And he walked away, whistling.

She called after him, "All this worship for you, a moron of the first order, it fair to makes me gag."

He laughed, waggled his fingers at her, but didn't turn.

TheRoyal Theater, D rury Lane

Rosalind said behind her hand to Aunt Sophie, "Kean pauses so very long between his sentences, it's difficult to know if he has finished declaiming his monologue. Poor Ophelia thought he was through with that last one and began her lines-even from here I could see the nasty look he gave her, and then he mowed right over her."

"Ah," Aunt Sophie whispered close to her ear, "but the passion in him, my dear, it fairly radiates around him, and the dramatic poses, so moving, so evocative-and would you look at the lovely stage sets, Rosalind. It's said he strives with all his artistic might to make all the scenery and the settings accurate."

"Aunt Sophie, are you laughing at me?"

"A small chuckle, no more. I will say he is not his father, but he does the part well enough."

Nicholas sat quietly, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked on the point of nodding off.

Rosalind poked him in the ribs. "Don't you dare fall asleep, Nicholas. Your snoring would be the ruin of all of us."

He slowly turned to smile at her. It was only a smile, but it smote her. Rosalind actually felt her heart thump down heavily on the toes of her white satin slippers. Isaw him the first time only two nights ago, she thought; only this morning I felt his mouth kiss my hand, so meaningless in the course of things, but he made my world turn upside down. Or right side up. It doesn't matter. Whatever he did, he did me in.

"No," he whispered, his breath warm on her cheek, "don't look at me like that. I'm a weak man, Rosalind, spare me."

"Weak, he." She pressed her fist over her mouth to smother the giggle. She looked over at Grayson and Lorelei Kilbourne. Grayson looked fascinated; she knew the signs. Unfortunately his fascination wasn't with his companion, it was with the drama unfolding on the stage. He was sitting slightly forward, his hands on his knees, absorbed. As for Lorelei, she wasn't looking at Kean; she was looking at Grayson, and the adoring look on her very pretty face made Rosalind want to kick her. She was a rug waiting for him to tread upon. But wait-did she, Rosalind de La Fontaine-look at Nicholas like that? Like a besotted half-wit? Oh, dear, could that be possible? She would get hold of herself. She would have dignity.

Nicholas whispered, "Lorelei is lovely and Grayson is basking."

"Not really," Rosalind said, eyes narrowed on Grayson's face. "The blind sod is more interested in what's happening on the stage."

"You're wrong. He is being smart; his seeming indiffer ence to her is drawing her in and he well knows it."

"She's already drawn in. If he draws her in any more she'll be plastered to him. But if you're right, that must mean he likes her. And that means he'll probably make her the beleaguered heroine in his next book."

Kean yelled something toward the audience, clasped his hands to his breast, flailed about, and, head bowed, collapsed gracefully on a chaise, his posture artfully arranged. The green curtain swooped down. Applause rang out, loud and sustained.

When the applause, whistles, and stomping feet finally dwindled enough that they could hear the orange girls calling out, signaling the intermission, Rosalind said to Nicholas, "This is a lovely box. We can see everything and everyone. There are so many people. I'll wager nearly all three thousand seats are occupied tonight. How delightful your father forgot he owned it."

"Miranda is furious she couldn't get her hands on the box."

She saw he was staring toward a box to their left. She followed his line of vision and saw two young men staring back at her.

"Your half brothers, I presume?"

He nodded. "The eldest, the tall dark one who looks remarkably like me, is Richard Vail. The pallid young man beside him who looks like a tormented poet is Lancelot. Of the two of them, I would guess he's the more vicious, since he hates the way he looks, hates his name, wishes I were dead at his feet, and needs only a sharp stiletto. Or perhaps he would prefer a nice heavy rock."