Rosalind stiffened but kept her back to the door. She deliberately came to Mr. Edding’s shop before it opened in order to avoid being seen.

“It was some passerby, my dear, who apparently can’t read the hours painted on the door. He’s gone. You’re quite safe.” He understood her fear of exposure; if it were revealed that she was a writer of erotica, her reputation not to mention her livelihood would be at risk. The scandal could ruin her.

A moment later, Rosalind bid good-by to Mr. Edding, left the shop, and walked home through the quiet streets. Only after she entered her apartment above the store did she allow herself to give in to fatigue. Not that she was unfamiliar with weariness after so many nights with little sleep.

Fortunately today was Tuesday-normally not a busy day, particularly in August with the beau monde having deserted London. Even the bourgeois were at the seashore with their families. She didn’t expect many customers.

She would rest for a brief time; the store didn’t open until ten.

Then fortified by another cup of tea-several actually-she would survive another day with limited sleep. But tonight, she would allow herself a rare treat and go to bed by midnight.

Chapter 3

GROVELAND ARRIVED AT Bruton Street Books shortly before ten.

An early riser, he’d already spent some hours with his new secretary, Stanley. All his correspondence, which had been left in abeyance during his absence, was now in order, and young Stanley was much relieved. The duke’s casual disregard for his mail was unfathomable to the meticulous lad, but then Stanley was still young and idealistic-neither of which characterized the duke. The duke was thirty-five. And his youth had been marked by tumult and violence when his father was in his cups-not an atmosphere likely to foster idealism.