Lord Twickenham’s address to the House of Lords on the Bill of Attainder for the Treasonous Acts of Lords Seduced by the French during the American Rebellion, July 8, 1783:

Mrs Ross convinced weak men of title and station to provide the French with secrets of his Majesty’s Government during the American Rebellion. My own brother perished because of their treachery. How many other fine men died because it?

She might be gone, along with the evidence of her conspirators’ crimes, but those deceitful men are still among us. My lords, I crave the day when proof of their villainy finally emerges and the full power of this Bill of Attainder is brought against them. If they think time can erase their guilt, then they are mistaken.

Through this Bill of Attainder, if evidence ever comes to light of their guilt, even if God has struck them from this earth, they will be convicted of High Treason as though they still walked among us. All their titles and lands will be forfeit to the Crown and their heirs will bear the burden of their fathers’ disgrace.

London, July 1803

Rafe Densmore, Fifth Baron of Densmore, marched up the stone staircase of Mrs Ross’s unimposing town house off Gracechurch Street. He rapped his knuckles against the door and the black ribbon hanging from the brass knocker fluttered in the breeze. He eyed it with a frown, wondering if the ancient courtesan’s sudden demise would be to his benefit or his detriment. She’d been perfectly alive and well when she’d penned the letter in his pocket, summoning him to her sad doorstep.

The old shrew.

He shifted back and forth on his feet. Deep in his boot, his toe caught the beginning of a hole in one stocking.

Damned cheap wool. If he employed a valet, the man would do something about it. Perhaps he might charm Mrs Linton, his landlady, into mending it for him. Though if her needlework proved anything like what she did to the meagre meals she deigned to deliver to his room, he might as well mend it himself. He wondered if her meals were the true extent of her culinary skills or revenge for his grossly outstanding rent.

The hackney horse waiting at the kerb whinnied, failing to disturb the thin driver leaning against the vehicle, smoking a long pipe. The smoke swirled around his head before the wind carried it over the back of his stocky grey animal.

Rafe eyed them both. Whoever had hired the poor beast and his horse must still be inside and it was time for them to draw their business to a close. He hadn’t fought so hard to reach Mrs Ross, or to raise the blunt needed to meet her demands, only to be stalled on the doorstep by a dawdling caller.

He raised his fist to knock again when the bolt scraped and the door creaked open to reveal the drooping eyes of a withered old butler. Rafe brushed past him and into the small entrance hall, his throat tightening from the thick dust covering every surface. A spider scurried behind a dark painting. Compared to this house, his current lodgings seemed breathtakingly opulent.

‘Lord Densmore to see Mr Nettles,’ Rafe announced. ‘He’s expecting me.’

‘Yes, of course. This way, my lord.’ The butler shuffled across the hall.

Rafe followed before something along the edge of his vision brought him to a halt at the morning-room door.

A tall, voluptuous woman draped in gauzy black silk stood by the cold fireplace. She didn’t move or greet him, but remained silent beneath the dark veil covering her face. A slow smile spread across Rafe’s lips, his fever in obtaining the register momentarily dampened. Despite her silence, something about her called to him and he moved closer to the doorway. The slight tensing of her shoulders made him stop, but not turn away. Her dress, dark and wispy like smoke, swirled around her curves. She clutched a book to her chest. The leather tome obscured the full roundness of her breasts, except for the creamy tops which were just visible beneath her black-net chemisette.

‘Good morning.’ He swept off his hat and dropped into a low bow, noting the few white petals scattered on the faded carpet at her feet, probably the remains of Mrs Ross’s funeral. By her own account, Mrs Ross was a recluse, but apparently she wasn’t completely devoid of friends to mourn her.

And what a delightful friend this is. Rafe straightened, admiring the woman’s generous measure of height. Heat flooded through him as he imagined tucking the statuesque creature into the curve of his body and brushing his lips along the bit of exposed neck caressed by her short veil. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, sensing her height would match his perfectly, the way Cornelia’s once did.

His hand tightened into a fist, the sharp edge of betrayal cooling his ardour. He relaxed his fingers and struggled to keep smiling. Why the deuce was he thinking of Cornelia? He’d left that business in France where, with any luck, it would stay.

He focused on the woman’s face, trying to catch a glimpse of her features beneath the thick veil. Nothing was visible except the flush of skin and the faint red of full lips. Hopefully, her features were as appealing as the hint of body beneath the close-cut French style of her dress. If the solicitor proved problematic with the register, this woman might be more obliging.