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  "I suspect your criticism is directed at me, to which in reply I would quote a possible ancestor of yours, Miss Mar­lowe: 'that was long ago and in another place.' I would wil­lingly defend my own conduct if that were the matter at dispute. But it is precisely because society's morals as a whole are dissolute that they will be most severe upon you for what they must consider a break in your moral standard, as though their censure of you denies or corrects any wrongdoing on their part."

  He argued so earnestly that again I was swayed, but he saw my weakening and made to take my hand in his. Abruptly I pulled away from him and took the offending vol­ume from Mr. Hillaby's desk.

  "I have no intention of changing my course of action, Lord Bladen, nor do I wish you to instruct me in what I should or should not do. I and I alone choose to allow the publication of this work, and nothing you can say will prevent it. I shall ask that a copy be sent to Lady Brentwood for her comment, as I take it you must consider her an authority on the subject."

  "I would it were Althea who would face what must await you after that work appears."

  "She has experience," I remarked caustically.

  "She has knowledge of that world and those people. She can handle rebuffs in a way you, I suspect, may not be able to—but your choice is made, and from all you say I take it that your decision is final."

  "It is."

  I felt uncomfortably close to tears and made to leave, but Darius laid his hand on my arm and added in a softer tone, "Remember, though, freedom is a heady thing. It should be used wisely. You have made your decision; nothing I can say, apparently, will change it. Nevertheless I ask that you take care. You will accept neither my advice nor my protection, so there is little I can do except to assure you that I am ready to help, should you ever need me."

  "I thank you, Lord Bladen, but I asked for your help once and it was not forthcoming. I shall never ask for it again."

  I left the room without bidding him farewell.

  XXIV

  Love's Breath was on the tables of London's booksellers the next week. Though the work was entitled Selected Short Pieces by the author of Sum of Glory and The New Cassandra, the love sonnet occupying only a very small part, nevertheless it was never referred to by any other name. The literary critics were for the most part kind, some even generous, though questions were raised on the salubrity of portions of the work and one critic even went so far as to label it salacious. It sold wildly. Within two weeks it was in its third printing.

  Mr. Hillaby was elated at its success. Though I had less reason to be satisfied, I consoled myself with the thought that my personal gain would make it possible for me to set up a residence of my own. The Hillabys had been kind, but since Darius's visit our relationship had grown strained. Mr. Hill­aby may have feared blame would fall on him should Darius's dire warning prove justified. That, perhaps, was the reason he deliberately ignored changes in attitude that began with sub­tlety but that became increasingly blatant as time passed.

  There was no abatement in the flow of invitations re­ceived at Hans Place; indeed, if anything they increased in number, for nothing was talked of but Love's Breath. If I had been welcomed before as an author, now I was perceived and received as a curiosity, one that warranted cultivating, yet hardly in a friendly fashion. Matrons would press me to at­tend their soirees yet often shun me after arrival, whispering behind their fans, their eyes turning quickly away whenever I glanced in their direction. Their husbands they guarded closely, their watch being not entirely without justification, for many a gentleman who had previously treated me with cour­tesy and respect now approached with innuendoed comments that became increasingly difficult to treat as the subject of jest. The more bold among them went further yet, leaving no doubt of their aspirations in terms that could not be ignored. And the more callous, although possibly the more honest of them, made outright requests for assignations. I found the be­haviour of all these gentlemen, perhaps because they were gentlemen and because that behaviour occurred within most impeccable drawing rooms, far coarser than had been the coachman's lewd ditties on that ride from Marlborough.

  I kept my head high, determined not to give in to the pressures I faced. Mr. Hillaby assiduously turned away from any unpleasantness, yet I could not blame him—the decision to publish the book had ultimately been mine, though I had known even as I made it that it stemmed, in part at least, from bravado. I did not want men to make my decisions for me— first father, then Darius—but as a result, I had to bear the consequences. Thus I continued to grace social functions that became increasingly intolerable, spurred on by the fact that wherever I was, there, too, was Darius. He would know the very moment I succumbed to the hostility he had predicted and by which I was surrounded. I refused to give in.

  Whereas before he had rarely joined me, now he was al­ways at my side. He never mentioned that scene in Mr. Hill­aby's study, nor did he say a word on the accuracy of his predictions. How much he was aware of I could not tell, for whenever he was at hand I was spared insult. He kept up a steady flow of conversation, from conducting wagers on the exact height of Lady Jersey's turban to the very tip of its single ostrich feather, to considerations on the slow progress of par­liamentary reform. He was not to be put off by sly allusions to Love's Breath but used them to comment on Brougham's idea of rewarding literary merit by bestowing the Guelphic Order on deserving poets and writers and suggesting that my name should be among them. I never ceased to marvel at his ability to control and direct a conversation without ever appearing to dominate it. At times I thought of his remark about having difficulty expressing himself on the morning he had proposed marriage to me—how long ago that seemed—yet no man was more at ease with the spoken word, at least in the social setting.

  There was never any private conversation between us, one reason being that wherever Darius was, there, too, was the elegant Lady Brentwood. She would take his arm in her casual yet all-too-possessive manner, her fingers managing to linger upon his whenever he handed her a glass of sherry or cham­pagne, and her eyes fixed upon his face whenever he spoke. All of this was calculated to annoy me, yet I cannot say that she did it for my benefit, for whereas her previous attitude to me had been critical, even hostile, by contrast it became far kinder than those I thought had befriended me. Yet I was unsure whether her friendliness to me stemmed from a desire to please me or to please Darius.

  I was quite sure that Darius was behind the invitation I received to Holland House. If Lady Holland received me coolly, it was also with the same moderation she reserved for Lady Brentwood and those other ladies of fashion and beauty who were her guests rather than because of any reputation that had preceded me, of that I was sure, for she herself had faced much the same censure when her marriage to Sir God­frey Webster had been dissolved because of her adultery with Lord Holland. If society had ostracized her for her sins, she had imperiously refused to recognize it and went on to make Holland House the centre of all brilliance and wit, so that those who had refused her admittance were soon begging for an invitation to join her circle. Her humour was acid, her rule over the household absolute, yet she had warmth and a keen interest in everything. I admired her.

  I was unsure whether Lady Holland recognized in Ara­bella Marlowe the ill-dressed, ill-at-ease provincial girl who had graced her table once before, but Sydney Smith, who was present, most certainly did. His lips twitched in the compul­sive good humour that was his style as he greeted me.

  "Miss Marlowe, how very nice to meet London's latest literary lioness. I understand society has put their stewing pan over the greatest fire they can build to fry away and get every­thing they can out of you."

  I acknowledged this with a wry smile.

  "You might be interested, Miss Marlowe, in knowing that I have had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with such a nice young man—a curate but I refuse to hold that against him—Cox-Neville by name."

  "Oh, Paul!" I gasped before I could help it. "How is he, Mr. Smith?"
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  "Quite well, quite well. At least so he was the last time I saw him not three weeks ago, though I must say he was dis­turbed over the disappearance of a sister of his, quite a fa­vourite, I gather."

  "Would you—would you mind conveying to him that I— that she is well and unharmed?"

  "Unharmed in body if not in spirit, Miss Marlowe, for I hear there is much unkindness directed towards you."

  "Nothing I cannot bear, Mr. Smith. It is of no con­sequence."

  "You are a gifted young lady, never forget that, and a sensible one, too, not to allow those wagging, idle tongues to inflict wounds."

  "Am I still that nice young person, as you once desig­nated me?" I asked, half-shyiy.

  "You are the very nicest young lady of my acquaintance, Miss Marlowe. I hope that you will remember that. I shall be delighted if you will allow me to take you in to tea. You know when I am in the country I always fear that Creation will expire before teatime. Thank God for tea! What would the world do without tea? How did it ever exist before—I am very glad I was not born before tea!"

  Not only tea but comfort and compassion he bestowed on me.

  Along with the support of Sydney Smith and Darius, there was also that of Geoffrey. Yet all too often he was accom­panied by Sir Clarence Wilmott, whom I detested. If I had considered that gentleman outrageously familiar before, he was now intolerable. Even though I kept myself aloof from him, he watched me intently wherever I went, like a panther waiting for its prey, smiling knowingly whenever, by some mischance, my eyes met his.

  "He's horrid," I told Geoffrey one morning at Hans Place.

  "But what has he done?" Geoffrey demanded.

  "Nothing. He just—he just looks at me, that's all."

  "A cat can look at a queen—not too original, I know, but nevertheless it's true."

  "Yes, but it's the way he looks, as though he would eat me for breakfast."

  "Hmmm," Geoffrey mused. "Perhaps you're right. You know, I once heard that a bunch of the Wilmotts got lost on Dartmoor, and by the time they were found only one of them was left."

  "What happened to the others?"

  "The surviving Wilmott had eaten them!"

  "Oh, Geoffrey, do be serious."

  "I won't. You're making far too much of this, Alex. That cousin of mine is far too serious; he's frightened you half to death. He had no right to do that. You need a little levity. You've written some jolly good verse—not left much to the imagination, to be sure, so you've aroused some of the old biddies' ire and the gentlemen's feelings. You have mine. Like Wilmott, I'm afraid I took you for a bit of a prude."

  "You're nothing like Wilmott, Geoffrey. I'll never under­stand your attachment to him. You are gentle and consider­ate. Quite frankly, I don't know what I'd do without your friendship."

  Unexpectedly he leaned over and stared intently into my face. "Alex, it would be much more than friendship if you'd allow it."

  "Oh, Geoffrey, don't spoil everything. I really need you, now more than ever, as a friend. I don't want anything more, not just from you but from any other man. I want an indepen­dent life, you know that."

  "And you are able to have it now with this book of yours selling like hot buns. You're becoming so rich you'd probably never consider a poor suitor like me."

  "Don't be ridiculous, Geoffrey. If I were to consider any suitor at all, it would be you."

  He paused, his light blue eyes catching mine in piercing hold. "Is that really true, Alex? Don't tease me, because I've always liked you but I thought you preferred Darius. Most women do; they always have. And I think he likes you, espe­cially now. I'm not the first to remark on the way he's been hanging around you. Is there something between you two—or has there been? I know you were always at Charteris."

  "There's nothing, I already told you that," I snapped, a trifle too quickly.

  "And you do prefer me to Darius," he insisted.

  "Didn't I just say that if I were to consider any suitor it would be you? Need I say more? But since I'm not, all of this is ponderously heavy."

  "And I wish you wouldn't be so hard on old Wilmott."

  An uncharitable retort rose to my lips, which I squelched with an invitation to Geoffrey to accompany me on my morn­ing walk.

  Tim was waiting on the steps as we came out, and I greeted him warmly. His was a friendly face in a city in which I no longer felt comfortable. Even in Chelsea I had fears of being accosted, and I appreciated Tim more than ever.

  I made to introduce Tim to Geoffrey until I caught sight of the look of disdain as he took in the boy's unkempt appear­ance. Before I could intercede, Geoffrey ordered. "Be off with you—the likes of you don't belong in this part of town."

  "Geoffrey!" I protested. "Tim is my friend. He helped me when first I came to London and he's been faithful to me ever since. We always walk together."

  "I don't give a farthing for that, Alex. I wouldn't be seen on the street with such a ragbone."

  Tim ran his eyes over Geoffrey's dandified figure and very slowly, very ostentatiously he wiped his runny nose on his sleeve.

  "S'oright, miss. I'll come back when the toff's not 'ere." He eyed the myriad silver buttons on Geoffrey's dark red morning coat. "Can't fer the life of me see why anyone'd want all them buttons that don't do nuffin."

  "Insolent little tramp!" Geoffrey glowered at Tim's thin, retreating figure.

  "Geoffrey, he's just a boy."

  "A nasty boy! A dirty boy . . ."

  "An unfortunate boy, Geoffrey. And a friend I would not be without."

  "Oh, come on, Alex, don't let's talk about the boy. Let's talk about you."

  But we ended up, as we usually did, talking about Geof­frey. He was an unending source of interest to himself, yet as he prattled on, he was so thoroughly engaging that at times he hardly seemed older than Tim and certainly not as wise. His attitude to Tim, though it distressed me, stemmed, I was sure, from the fact that he was comfortable only with his own social peers.

  Though Geoffrey was my friend, it was Tim I came to rely on more and more, especially after an unnerving incident that occurred a few days later.

  Since the publication of Love's Breath, I had had a suspi­cion that I was being followed, yet not being of a hysterical bent, I was sure that my imagination must be playing tricks with me. My follower, or suspected follower, was a decidedly ill-favoured man of such strange aspect, having the body of a pugilist with nose and ears showing signs of having been pum­melled far too often for their good, that when I remarked him several days in succession walking behind me at a discreet distance, I decided it must be more than imagination or mere coincidence. I resolved to accost him, yet whenever I tried to do so, he vanished.

  One morning as I sat by the river with Tim, listening to his reading, I caught sight of the little man. Whispering my suspicions to Tim while pretending to be correcting his pro­nunciation, together we hatched a plan to find out who he was. Tim bade me good-bye and left while I stayed where I was, acutely aware that the man stood some distance from me engaged in studious contemplation of the water. As soon as I caught sight of Tim creeping up on the man from behind, I approached him directly; when he attempted his usual disap­pearing trick, Tim caught hold of one of his legs and held onto it like a terrier.

  "Gotcher, yer cove!" he yelled in exultation.

  "All right, my man," I grasped his arm while Tim tight­ened his hold on the struggling man's leg. "You have been following me for a long time. Everywhere I go, there you are behind me. It's no coincidence. What is it you want? Whom do you work for? Tell me, because one way or another I intend to find out."

  "Orl right, miss." He grinned foolishly, showing a mouth almost completely devoid of teeth. "You got me, you 'ave an all, but honest I ain't done nuffin. You can't accuse me of 'aving put a finger on you, not a finger, now can you?"

  "I'm not accusing you of that, but don't deny you've been following me. Why?"

  "They tole me you was a poet. I just 'appen to like a bi
t of poetry, that's all." He grinned again.

  "You like a bit of poetry," I repeated stupidly.

  "Yes, miss, I'm a bit of a poet meself, you see."

  "Repeat to me some of your poetry," I demanded.

  "Oo, I don't remember it by 'eart."

  "How odd." I opened Tim's book and pointed at the page. "Read this."

  His face flushed. "I can't, miss."

  "There's no shame in it if you can't, but if you don't know your poetry by heart and you can't read, then you can't write, so how can you be a poet. What do you want of me? I want the truth, and I intend to have it or I'll inform the authorities you're a common thief."

  "But I ain't robbed you of nowt, now 'ave I?"

  "You've robbed me of my peace of mind."

  "I didn't mean no 'arm to you, so don't make trouble for me. It would go bad fer me. See, the party I work fer wouldn't like it, wouldn't like it at all. I might lose me position, me livelihood. You wouldn't want that, would yer, miss?"

  "For whom do you work?" I demanded, a suspicion dawning on me.

  The man fidgeted, stomping his free foot.

  "Out with it or I'll have your job anyway," I admonished.

  "I ain't saying."

  "Is it Sir Clarence Wilmott?"

  He looked down without answering, yet I had caught his start of recognition.

  "You don't deny it. Just what were his orders to you?"

  "I ain't sayin' nuffin. I ain't done nuffin. I'm a poor man wot's done nuffin."

  It was useless. Tim and I didn't have the strength be­tween us to drag any information from him. I dug into my reticule and found a shilling.

  "Here, take this. I don't ever want to see your face again, and that goes for your master also. You may tell him that from me. I am forewarned. Should I ever catch sight of you again, I shall inform the authorities whether you've done any harm or no, do you understand?"