She went outside with the others, nodding farewell to Mistress Mitchell, whose smile revealed blackened stumps in a flaccid mouth. The bawd was of a different order from Mistress Dennison, Juliana reflected. The social hierarchy in this underworld was as rigidly defined as it was in her own world.

She walked arm in arm with Lilly toward Russell Street, glancing over her shoulder, half expecting to see the imperturbable Ted on her heels. She'd managed to evade him with the simple expedient of leaving the house by the back stairs and telling no one. She would face the inevitable fireworks on her return. She didn't have to admit where she'd been. The duke had not mentioned Lucy's letter again, so she assumed he hadn't read the relevant paragraph.

She turned back to Lilly, who was excitedly describing her surprise at how enthusiastic everyone had been at the meeting. Suddenly Juliana jerked her head sideways again. Immediately she cursed herself for the reflex action. George was standing on the corner of Russell Street, gazing at her. He'd seen her turn. He would have seen the startled flash of recognition in her eyes, however rapidly it was suppressed.

She couldn't risk taking a chair now on her own. It would be all too easy for George to follow, to force himself upon her. Now she would have given anything for the sight of the imperturbable Ted. She was aware of George following them down the street. He was making no attempt to hide his pursuit; indeed, his step was almost jaunty. It was almost as if he was mocking her, challenging her to evade him.

When they reached the house, she accompanied the others inside, managing not to look behind her, although the skin on her back prickled. "Is there a back way out of the house?"

"Why?" Lilly looked at her in puzzlement.

Juliana frowned, wondering whether she could take them into her confidence. She settled for half the story. "There's a man following me. I don't wish to speak with him."

"Juliana, who is he?" They all pressed closer, eyes shining with curiosity.

"A man from the past," Juliana said mysteriously. "An odious creature who's been pestering me for days."

"Like that dreadful Captain Waters," Rosamund said. "He followed Lilly around for months. Even after Mr. Garston had warned him off."

"Lud, he was a vile nuisance." Lilly fanned herself vigorously as if she would waft away the memory. "He never paid his bill or brought presents, or even left me a little something for myself. It's no wonder Mr. Dennison barred him from the house."

"But he still came around making sheep's eyes at you." Emma chuckled. "Offered to wed you, didn't he?"

"La! I'd not throw myself away on a wet-handed pau per," Lilly declared with disgust. "I know my worth, let me tell you."

All interest in Juliana's pursuer had been forgotten in this reminiscence, and when she asked again for a way out of the back, Rosamund without further question directed her to a door through the kitchens that opened onto a narrow alley piled with kitchen refuse.

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George couldn't believe his luck. Juliana was in the whorehouse again. This time she hadn't been conveyed in the duke's chair and there were no stalwart ducal employees to protect her. There was no sign, either, of the ugly-looking customer who had been accompanying her hitherto. The field was clear. He'd tried the legitimate path with his appeal to the Forsetts. Now he would do what he really wanted to do. He would take her off the street. And he would keep her until he'd had enough of her. Then he would give her up to the magistrates. He didn't need the help of that drunkard Edgecombe. This he could do alone.

But she'd seen him. He'd seen the flash of recognition in her eyes. She wouldn't walk into his arms. Pleased with his cunning, George retraced his steps, looking for the back of the house. Juliana was an artful bitch. She would attempt to give him the slip, and there was only one way she could do that.

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Juliana stepped into the narrow alley and looked around, conscious of the door to safety at her back. A mangy dog sniffed at the refuse in the kennel, but there was no other movement in the alley. She slipped into the open and hastened toward Charles Street, a square of light at the end of the gloomy, noisome cobbled corridor. She emerged into the busy street and looked around for a chair or a passing hackney.

Then it happened. One minute she was standing in the sunshine, the next enveloped in a dense, suffocating blackness. She had heard nothing, seen nothing. Now her limbs were caught up in thick folds of material. A hand was pressed hard against her face stifling her cries. She was lifted, twisted, bundled, thrust through a narrow aperture, banging her covered head on the edge of something. Arms like iron bands clutched her, holding her still and steady. A whip cracked, and she realized she was in a coach of some kind. The vehicle lurched forward and the arms around her tightened. She struggled and kicked, but the hand pressed the wadded material against her mouth and nose until black spots danced in front of her eyes and her lungs screamed for air. She fell still and immediately the suffocating pressure was eased. She was accustomed to thinking of herself as big-boned and ungainly, strong enough to break most holds, but she couldn't fight against suffocation.

She forced herself to keep still. The blanket swaddling her smelled strongly of horse. As her mind cleared, she realized that she was in George's hands. Her captor was a big man, like George, and she could feel his flabbiness, feel the excess flesh rolling over his frame as he held her against him. A shudder of revulsion ripped through her. What was he going to do with her? But she knew the answer to that perfectly well. In her mind's eye she saw George in his cups, his little eyes lusting, his loose lips wet and hungry. She could almost feel his great hands on her body, pulling the clothes from her, falling onto her as she lay pinned beneath him, his fetid breath suffocating. . . .

Panic flooded her and she began to struggle again, her legs flailing desperately against the confining folds of her skirts and the enfolding blanket. Again the wadded material pressed against her nose. Again she fought for breath . . . and then suddenly the vehicle lurched to a halt. There were confused shouts, bumps. A violent thud that set the coach rocking as if someone had jumped into the vehicle. The pressure was abruptly lifted. Her lungs gulped at the hot, stale air trapped in the musty folds of the blanket.

George was bellowing, still clutching at her but not as securely as before. She renewed her struggles to free herself from the blanket. She had no idea what was going on around her, but whatever it was, it gave her a slim chance to escape.

George's arms suddenly went slack, and she tumbled off his knee and onto the floor of the carriage. She rolled over onto her hands and knees and heaved herself upright, throwing off the blanket, emerging pink, breathless, and sweaty … to find George slumped unconscious against the squabs of the hackney and Ted, his hand still in a fist, regarding her with undisguised irritation.

"I've better things to do than chasin' all over town looking for you," he stated before throwing open the door and calling up to the box. "Hey . . . jarvey. 'Elp me get rid of this bloke."

The jarvey appeared in the open door. He gazed dispassionately at the unconscious George. "Who'll be payin' me fare, then?"

Ted didn't answer. He grabbed George by the shoulders and hauled him off the bench. " 'Ere, take his legs."

The jarvey obliged. A small crowd had gathered around them, but no one seemed concerned as the two men swung George out of the carriage and propped him up against the wall of a tavern.