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and then moving from one to another, leaving society wondering what sin he had discovered in them."

Narraway's mouth pulled tight, lips thin in disgust. "Don't be so squeamish, Pitt. You know damned well what sins society attributed to them... rightly or not. They don't care who or what you are, only what other people think you are. A woman's purity is worth more than her courage, warmth, pity, laughter, or honesty. Her chastity means that she belongs to you. It's a matter of ownership." There was a bitterness in his voice that was more than cynicism; Pitt would have sworn it was also pain.

Then he thought of how he would feel if Charlotte were to allow herself to be touched intimately by anyone else, let alone that she should return the passion, and any reason in the argument was overwhelmed.

"It matters." He made it a statement, too hot and sharp to be taken as debate.

Narraway smiled, but he did not meet Pitt's eyes. "Are you speaking generally, or do you know the names of any of these women, and more to the point, their fathers, brothers, or other lovers who might feel like following Lovat around London and shooting him?"

"Of course I do," Pitt responded, glad to be on safer ground, and yet feeling he had left something unsaid which mattered. Was it only his feelings, too powerful to be expressed in so few and simple words, or was there something of reason there also, a fact that momentarily escaped him?

"And from the expression in your face," Narraway observed, "it was all of no use to you."

"To us," Pitt corrected tartly. "None at all."

He was amazed and a little hurt to see the hope die out of Narraway's eyes, as if he had held it as more than a thing of the mind.

Sensing Pitt's gaze on him, Narraway turned half away, shielding something in himself. "So you have learned nothing, except that Lovat was a man courting disaster."

That was a cutting way to have worded it, but it was essentially true. "Yes."

Narraway drew in his breath to say something else, then let it out without speaking.

"I saw Ryerson," Pitt volunteered. "He's still convinced Miss Zakhari is innocent."

Narraway looked back at him, his eyebrows raised.

"Is that an oblique way of saying that he isn't going to help himself by stepping back and admitting that he arrived to find Lovat already dead?" Narraway asked.

"I don't know what he's going to say. The police know he was there, so he can't deny it."

"Too late anyway," Narraway retorted with sudden bitterness. "The Egyptian embassy knew he was there. I've moved everything I can to find out who told them, and learned nothing, except that they have no intention of telling me."

Very slowly Pitt sat up straighter. He had not even been thinking about what Narraway had been doing, but with a charge like electricity shooting through him, he realized the import of what he had said.

Narraway smiled with a downward twist of his mouth. "Exactly," he agreed. "Ryerson may be making a fool of himself, but someone is giving him some discreet and powerful assistance. What I am not yet certain of is what part Ayesha Zakhari is playing, and whether she is aware of it herself. Is she the queen or the pawn?"

"Why?" Pitt asked, leaning forward now. "Cotton?"

"It would seem the obvious answer," Narraway replied. "But obvious is not necessarily true."

Pitt stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

Narraway relaxed back into his chair, but it seemed more a resignation than a matter of ease. "Go home and sleep," he said. "Come back tomorrow morning."

"That's all?"

"What else do you want?" Narraway snapped. "Take it while you can. It won't last."

CHAPTER FIVE

CHARLOTTE GAVE A GREAT DEAL of thought to Martin Garvie and what could have happened to him. She was aware of many of the ugly or tragic things that could overtake servants, and of the misfortunes they could bring upon themselves. She also knew that Tilda was his sister, and Tilda's opinion of him was bound to be colored by her affections, and a certain innocence of the world inevitable in any girl of her lack of experience. Charlotte would not have wished it to be otherwise for Tilda's own sake. She must be of a similar age to Gracie, but she had nothing like the same spirit or the curiosity, and perhaps not the bitter experience of the streets either. Perhaps Martin had protected her from that?

They were in the