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her hand and pressed it to his forehead. He was feverish. "Not Esmond, Leila. For God's sake, anyone but
him
."
    He didn't know what he was saying. She would not let him upset her. "Francis, there isn't anyone," she said patiently, as to a child. "No lovers, not even a flirt. I won't be anyone's whore — not even yours." She took her hand away. "So don't talk rot."
    He shook his head. "You don't understand and there's no point in explaining it because you won't believe me. I'm not sure even I believe it — but that doesn't matter. One thing's clear enough: we're getting out of Paris."
    She was moving away, intending to fill the washbasin for him. Now she turned back, her heart thudding. "Leave Paris? Because you took more intoxicants tonight than was good for you? Really, Francis — "
    "You can stay if you like, but I won't. Think of that, my sweet, if nothing else. I won't be around to keep your admirers out of your hair — which I know is about all I'm good for these days — a bloody bodyguard. But maybe you've decided you don't want one any more. You didn't want one tonight, obviously. Talk of whores," he muttered. "That's just what you'd be. One of hundreds. You should see the tarts when they get a glimpse of the beautiful Comte d'Esmond. Like maggots swarming over a ripe cheese. Anything, anyone he wants — as many as he wants — and it never costs him a sou. Even you, precious." He looked up at her. "You'd do his portrait for free, wouldn't you?"
    The picture Francis painted was disgusting. It was also, Leila had no doubt, accurate. So, too, was his assessment of her. Francis was not a stupid man, and he knew her very well. She met his gaze. "You can't truly believe I'm in danger."
    "I
know
it. But I don't expect you to see how dangerous he is — or admit it if you did." He rose. "It's your choice. I can't force you to do anything. I'm leaving for London. I want you to come with me." He gave her a bitter smile. "I wish I knew why. Maybe you're my poison, too."
    Leila wished she knew why, too, but she'd given up trying to understand her husband years ago. She'd made a mistake in marrying him and found a way to live with it. Her life could have been better, but it also could have been far worse. A great deal worse could have befallen her had Francis not come to her rescue in Venice. At present, thanks to Andrew Herriard, she was financially secure. Despite her gender, she was gaining respect as an artist. She had a friend in Fiona. When she was working, she was happy. In general, she was happier than most of the women she knew, though her husband was a hopeless profligate. And he… well, he was as good to her as he was capable of being.
    In any case, she dared not stay in Paris or anywhere else without a husband. And he, she knew, would never let her remain here without him, whatever he claimed.
    "If you're truly determined to go," she said carefully, "of course I'll go with you."
    His smile softened. "It isn't a whim, you know. I mean it. London. By the end of the week."
    She bit back a cry. The end of the week — three commissions abandoned… But she'd get others, she told herself.
    There wouldn't be another Comte d'Esmond. There would never be another face like that. Still, it was only that — a subject for painting. She doubted she could ever do it justice anyhow.
    She thought perhaps it was safer not to try.
    "Do you need longer?" Francis asked.
    She shook her head. "I can pack up the studio in two days," she said. "One, if you help."
    "Then I'll help," he said. "The sooner we're gone, the better."

Chapter Two
    London, 1828

    As it turned out, French aristocrats weren't the only ones wanting their countenances immortalized. A week after settling into the modest townhouse in Queen's Square, Leila was at work, and through spring, summer, and autumn, the commissions came thick and fast. The work left her no time for social life, but she doubted she could have had one anyhow. Her London clients and