Scowling in frustration, Livia took up her pacing. It was more of a continual glide, around and around the chamber, moving through any object in her path.

She radiated so much energy, even in this non-corporeal state. When she had been alive . . . she must have filled every room with her presence, all eyes drawn to her. God knew he couldn’t look away.

“Servants, perhaps,” she said after a moment. “They’re the keepers of secrets, and easily bribed into silence.”

“Servants know some secrets, but not all. They’re more interested in domestic scandal than governmental machinations.” He rubbed at his jaw as the seedling of an idea began to take root. “But there are a select few who learn all the hidden truths of a man’s heart. Who learn his darkest thoughts, and private ambitions.”

“Priests?”

He smiled. “Wives.”

The mantua maker’s establishment fronted the Strand, clear evidence of its fashionable status. Prints from France, displaying the latest styles, adorned the modern bow window, alongside a ready-made gown of white and green printed Colonial cotton. Within, bolts of heavy brocade lined up beside gleaming satin, fine messaline silk. Ribbons were arranged on spools, and trays bearing embroidered kidskin gloves and velvet flowers lined up on the counter. Rosewater and talc scented the air.

Bram gazed around the shop. He inhaled deeply, smiling. The realm of patrician women, soft, purposefully delicate and removed.

Yet even here, in this stronghold of gentility, dwelled darkness. Ladies swayed anxiously through the room, trailed by their wary-eyed abigails. Their fingers brushed over sumptuous fabrics, and they spoke in musical murmurs about cuts of a polonaise or the silver embroidery on a stomacher. Yet their voices were distracted, talking of assemblies none planned to attend. Several of the mantua maker’s assistants kept throwing apprehensive gazes toward the watery gray light drifting in through the window, as though marking the hour, and when the last protective rays of the sun might disappear.

Catching sight of Bram in the doorway, the mantua maker herself danced over to him. “My lord, an honor. I am Madame De Jardin.” Her French accent came direct to London by way of Ipswich. “How might I assist you this lovely day?”

“Merely perusing your fine shop, Madame.” He affected a casual glance, his gaze never resting anywhere for too long, though he sought something, someone in particular. Ah—there she was. “When I need your assistance, I shall assuredly let you know.”

Effectively dismissed, the mantua maker dropped into a curtsy then slipped away to help a dowager choose between black bombazine and black tabinet.

He ambled over to shelves holding more bolts of fabric, and feigned interest in studying their colors and patterns.

Is she here? Livia asked.

Toward the back. She’s the one in bronze jacquard.

I’ve no idea what jacquard is, was the tart reply. Clearly, you’ve learned much from undressing women.

It helps to know many languages.

Livia made a soft noise of scorn. Don’t tarry. Go to her.

Remember what I said before? Too much eagerness won’t yield results. We take our time, and reap the benefits of our patience.

The veteran seducer’s wisdom.

We know it has its uses.

He studied a bolt of pale blue sarcenet, lightly touching its lustrous surface. Despite Livia’s impatience, she hummed with feminine approval. Bram tucked his smile away. For all her forcefulness and imperious declarations, she was still a woman.

You approve? he asked.

The silk shines well enough, but the color is too mild.

This, I think, is more to your tastes. He ran his finger down a length of deep gold charmeuse. Her skin would feel the same, silken and lithe.

Oh, she breathed. That is ... Her words trailed away, and his mind suddenly filled with images of her, draped in a gold silk tunic. They were her own envisioning, yet they became his, and the vision made his mouth water. In her thoughts, she wasn’t a translucent form, but a woman of solid flesh, her skin olive-hued and burnished, the charmeuse embracing her curves like a lover.

There was silk, too, when I lived, she said, regaining her voice. It wasn’t half as fine. The wonders of this modern era.

They are abundant. But this modern era would be in awe of you.

He felt the warmth of her pleasure. Yet she said crisply, Your flattery isn’t necessary. There’s nothing to be gained by it.

A compliment needn’t serve a purpose. It can simply exist.

Ah. A long pause. Thank you.

Those were not words she seemed familiar with speaking, but they were sincere.

He moved slowly through the shop, smiling politely when an assistant or client tried to catch his eye. The assistants, barely more than girls, blushed and curtsied, though their shy smiles faltered when they espied his scar.

Does it pain you? Livia asked quietly.

It healed long ago.

Not the wound. But the response it engenders.

I used to hate it. Wore my stock so high it choked me, just to cover it. Then I deliberately left my neckcloths undone—flaunting it, I suppose.

Surely that brought you more than a few female admirers. Few things are as appealing to a woman than scars.

One of the customers, a nobleman’s young wife he dimly remembered from a card party, angled herself in his path. She wore an expectant smile.

He nodded, and stepped around her. The sound of her insulted huff bounced off his back.

I was a novelty. A tame monster. They wanted to boast to their friends about taking me to their beds and surviving.

Then everyone benefitted from the arrangement.

Was it a benefit? The single-minded way he hunted pleasure—from one bed to the next, one encounter following another—stripped it down to a basic, animal need, absent of true enjoyment. Barely had he risen from the tangled sheets, discarding the used lambskin sheaths he employed to keep himself in reasonably sound health, before he planned his subsequent conquests.

The grimness of this prospect looted any cheer from the shop. Bright silks dulled, and the curlicue voices of the women flattened into toneless drones.

I . . . Livia sounded oddly contrite. It wasn’t my intent to lower you.

I’ve been low, he answered. Dwelt there for years. Whether I can climb upward is yet to be determined.

He carefully maneuvered himself near his intended target. She idly toyed with a length of lace—Spanish, judging by the pattern. But her rouged lips were pressed tight, and she seemed little interested in the scrap of expensive fabric she fingered.

Something pressed upon Lady Maxwell’s mind.

Though Bram was the only man in the shop, it was a measure of her distractedness that she did not notice him until he stood beside her. Only when her maid coughed politely to gain her attention did Lady Maxwell glance up. She nearly looked twice, her lips making an O of surprise. Of all the people she must have considered meeting at a fashionable dressmaker’s shop, Bram must have been low on that list.

“Lord Rothwell.”

“Lady Maxwell.”

They offered each other decorous bows and curtsies.

“This is an unexpected delight,” he said. He had, in fact, followed her from her home in St. James, careful to keep his horse out of sight from her carriage.

“I was unaware that you patronized Madame De Jardin’s establishment.” She glanced past Bram’s shoulder. “You are here with . . .”

He watched her mentally run through the possibilities. He had no living female relations, and certainly no wife.