Jessopp’s own well-annotated copy of the Memoirs was over on the table. But here was another instance where he and his partner had a difference of opinion. “I think it was a gentleman doing the writing,” he said stubbornly. “I read it over with that in mind.”

“Well, if you know all the doings of the ton, name the man,” Goffe said. “Go ahead.”

Jessopp thought about how much he hated his partner while he decided how to reply. “I don’t know who wrote it yet. You know that. But there are turns of phrase that could only have been written by a gentleman. Even that bit about how he named all the women after a Shakespeare play: that isn’t the sort of thing an average man would dream up.”

“We need to know for certain,” Goffe said. “For God’s sakes, don’t get us embroiled in a lawsuit, but we need the answer to this one, Jessopp. If your regular little rodents haven’t told you—”

Jessopp moved in instinctive protest at this characterization. He had wide circles of friends, who were kind enough to bring him information.

“Whatever,” Goffe told him. “Yer friends have failed you this time. That means we need to go back to the old days, if you ask me. We need a rattler, the way we used to have. One of The Tatler’s own rattlers. That’s what we need.”

Jessopp curled his lip. “We’ve moved beyond those days. Now people come to us. We leave that sort of sneaking corruption to the scandal rags.”

“We are a scandal rag,” Goffe told him, unmoved. “What’s more, we’re a scandal rag that’s passing up one of the biggest scandals around. If that book was written by someone in the ton, then that’s a story that The Tatler needs to break. We own the ton.”

Jessopp couldn’t help seeing the truth of that.

“The ton has a right to know who’s hiding behind the name Hellgate,” Goffe continued. “Mayne will thank us when we ferret out the truth of it. Who’s depraved enough to take someone else’s strumpets and turn the tale into a triple folio, sold in leather?”

“If the author is a depraved member of the ton,” Jessopp said, “that reduces the number of suspects to around seven hundred.”

“It’s not the biggest story of this year,” Goffe said. “It’s the only story of this year. Take our whole budget, Jessopp. Just get that name, and get it fast. If someone else breaks the truth of it, we’re done. They all buy us because they can trust us to dish up the dirt, for all you want to call it by prettier names. That dirt is paying for our breakfast sausage.”

Jessopp reached out and curled his fingers around his copy of Hellgate’s Memoirs. “You have your uses, Goffe,” he said slowly.

“Damn right I do,” Goffe said, relighting his pipe.

5

From The Earl of Hellgate, Chapter the Second

’Twas a small space, just large enough for the two of us. My heart sank, as there was no place to lie down. A moment later I was introduced to the sweet art of standing fare. She curled her legs around me with all the strength and wiliness of a circus performer. My hands gave her support as if I were made for the chore (and indeed, I think perhaps I was). Then she rode me, Dear Reader; she took me where she pleased.

T he Earl of Mayne sauntered up to Josie as if he’d seen her only yesterday, although she’d been in London for two months, and he’d never bothered to say hello to her. She found that intensely irritating. He may be old enough to be her older brother, but he didn’t have to act with a brother’s carelessness.

She resisted the impulse to stick out her tongue at him. There were limits to how much of an older brother he likely wished to be.“Miss Essex,” he said, bowing as if she were the queen.

She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “You called me Josephine on the trip to Scotland,” she pointed out.

“Josie, actually. And how are you?”

“Fine,” she said flatly. She liked Mayne, and felt hurt that he had never bothered to see how she was doing in her first season. Even when she became notorious…he must have heard about that. “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance? Because generally your sister Griselda has at least five men arranged who are required to ask me to dance.”

“She must have forgotten to give me my marching orders,” he said easily, handing her a glass of champagne. “Drink this, chérie. You look as if you could use it.”

“Why?” she asked a little wildly. “Because I’m standing here at the ball given for my sister’s wedding, waiting for my prearranged dances to begin? Because I’m—”

“Because you’re growing hysterical,” he observed. “How interesting. I never knew you to be hysterical before.”

She took a deep breath. “Well, I’m very sorry to tell you that I am remarkably tedious company.”

“We all are when we’re wallowing in self-pity,” he said, without a trace of sympathy in his voice.

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Thank God I don’t. There’s nothing more monotonous than Almack’s on a hot Wednesday night. Nothing but sweating jackasses and flushed young women trotting about in too many ribbons.”

Josie didn’t know why she’d even wanted Mayne to care about how she was doing. He was a fool, just like the rest of them. She started to look about, because if he wasn’t her designated dancing partner, there was sure to be another old codger limping along in a moment. But then she remembered something. “You’re engaged to be married! I saw you in the church.”

His eyes lit up and for a moment Josie forgave him for not caring about her debut. “I want to introduce you to Sylvie. I am persuaded you will be enchanted by her,” and he took her by the arm and started towing her across the floor.

“Isn’t she French?” Josie asked, hanging back so that he had to walk slowly. Anything was better than standing around looking like a marooned cow missing her herd. “I’m sorry,” she said, coming to a halt, “I don’t remember her surname. I wouldn’t want to meet her without knowing her name.”

“Her name is Sylvie de la Broderie.”

She had to smile at the way Mayne said it. He was so—so adorably beautiful, in a rakish, French kind of way. All that exquisitely tumbled black hair, falling precisely in the most popular of windswept styles. And cheekbones you could cut with. She could see why Annabel and Tess had nearly come to blows over who was going to marry him. “What’s Miss Broderie like?”

“She’s very intelligent. She paints portraits, in miniature. They’re exquisite. She has the skill of a natural artiste, and her father gave her the best tutors in Paris, at least until they fled to this country in 1803. Her father…”

He kept talking about this paragon he’d discovered, pulling her across the room again. He talked just the way that Rafe talked about Imogen, which annoyed Josie.

“But what does she look like?” Josie said, stopping him again.

“Look like?” He blinked at her. “She’s beautiful, of course.”

“Of course,” Josie said, skipping a little to keep up with him. She knew all about Mayne’s reputation for seducing beautiful women. By most accounts he’d had a hundred affairs, though none of them lasted over a fortnight. Not to mention that everyone was saying that he was the model for the Earl of Hellgate.