In some small measure, her stories ran parallel to contemporary women’s pursuit of liberty and freedom in all areas of life. Not that women were free from their corseted, high-collared, straitlaced world of patriarchy, puritanism, and prejudice, but critical change was in the air.

And with it, a crisis of masculinity had begun.

Enough, enough! She had no time for musing.

Her piecework had to be finished.

She smiled. If her stories continued to sell well, someday she might actually visit Constantinople.

She wiggled her toes in her slippers, shoved a heavy fall of auburn hair from her forehead, and bent to her task.

Should Lady Blessington sigh or scream in orgasmic ecstasy?

The erstwhile eunuch was very well endowed-very well, indeed.

She rather thought Lady Blessington might scream, she decided, her pen once again racing over the page.

Rosalind didn’t look up again until the last page was complete, the newest chapter conveniently coming to an orgasmic conclusion. Then she checked the time, smiled, and stretched leisurely.

Six. She had a sufficient interval in which to bathe, dress, and breakfast before carrying her manuscript to Bond Street and turning it over to Mr. Edding. His stationery shop was tres fashionable; only the best clientele ordered their monogrammed writing materials from him. And he looked so very unlike a publisher of bawdy literature that her anxiety about having her secret occupation exposed was minimal.

MR. EDDING LITERALLY rubbed his hands in delight when she walked through the doorway of his shop at eight.