Quill broke into laughter as he began nimbly undoing the small pearl buttons at the back of her gown. Gabby tried to pull away. She clearly wasn’t done with rational conversation.

“Gabby,” Quill said, appalled to hear how hoarse his voice had become. “There are certain times when conversation, rational or incoherent, is not helpful.” He picked her up and carried her over to a bed hung in watered silk.

“This is one of those times.”

Chapter 16

EMILY EWING WAS DISMAYED to discover just how much she missed Lucien Boch’s conversation. It had been over three weeks since Lady Fester’s ball, during which time Mr. Boch had called four times. She had refused to see him each time, steeling her heart with the thought that she could not raise Phoebe in a house of shame. And she had completed her account of the Fester ball with no mention of an amber-colored gown fashioned of Italian gauze, or of a former marquis, for that matter.

Unfortunately, Bartholomew Hislop had taken the news that she had accompanied Mr. Boch to a ball as a sign that he should be graced with the same attention. It was hard to contemplate, she thought numbly. This morning Hislop was tricked out in primrose trousers that were so tight as to cause him obvious discomfort. Even if she hadn’t ever met Lucien, even if she had no one with whom to compare Hislop, she wouldn’t have wished to be seen in public with him. At any rate, it was too late, too late, too late. The words rang dully in her head. She had met the elegant Mr. Boch, she had met him and she had—almost—succumbed to his practiced seductions. Yet virtue was a cold comfort, faced as she was with the bumptious and lusty Mr. Hislop.

“I wish you to accompany me to the balloon ascension tomorrow afternoon,” Mr. Hislop was saying, with more than a hint of petulance leaking into his tone.

“I am afraid that I must decline,” Emily replied. “I write in the afternoons, and I cannot take excursions of this sort.” Too late, she realized that she had played directly into his hand.

“Fine!” he chortled. “In that case, we shall spend the evening at the theater. An intimate evening will cheer you up.”

When she opened her mouth to refuse, Hislop’s flabby lower lip puffed out. “Or I won’t be helping you any further, Mrs. Ewing.” He placed one stubby finger on the stack of foolscap balanced on the table. “It took me time, it did, to gather all this information. Quid pro quo, as they say in the legal profession.”