A Duke For All Seasons by Mia Marlowe

turning of the autumn leaves.
         “When this is over,” she said with false brightness, “we’ll dine again at the Peacock’s Tail. And this time we won’t pass up dessert.”
         His mouth lifted in a half smile and then he was gone. Bella sank into the Tudor chair again, balling a fist against her lips to keep from sobbing aloud. As if a giant cat batted her mouse’s heart back and forth, she alternated between fear for Lisette and fear for Sebastian.
         Compose yourself , she ordered with sternness. She’d be of no use to anyone if she allowed herself to go to pieces. She had to think. She had to stay sharp.
         The lives of the ones she loved might depend upon it.
         Love. Yes , she admitted to herself. She loved her daughter. What she felt for Sebastian was hot and desperate, but it was more than simply sexual. It was the mostly deeply troubling emotion she’d ever experienced. It must be love.
         She drew a deep breath, swiped her eyes dry and stood, ready to return to the breakfast room to deliver a convincing tale to Sebastian’s aunt about the way her nephew had abandoned his latest lover. Lady Moorcroft could be counted upon to shake her head over the duke’s inconstancy. She’d spread the story to all who would listen once she returned to London, provided she tippled a few glasses of sherry first.
         It would be good practice for trying to convince Fernand that she was more than willing to betray Sebastian. It would require all her stagecraft to pull off. Privately, she gave herself one chance in three of Fernand believing her.
          She took a step toward the door when she remembered one of the folders Mr. Harris had brought to Sebastian still rested on his desk. He’d been investigating someone else in addition to Fernand. It would behoove her to be aware of anyone Sebastian mistrusted and steer clear of them as well.     
         The name at the top of the page forced all the breath from her lungs.
         Arabella St. George.
         There on the foolscap, all the foibles and missteps of her life were set down baldly—her obscure birth, the discovery of her unique vocal talent as a child, the death of her parents and the maestro who took her under his lecherous wing. She owed her unshakable singing technique to him, but when her body blossomed into the first flush of maturity, he also taught her other things. Things someone who still had a child’s heart ought not to have learned until much later.
         Then there were the other men who had figured in her life, listed neatly and in order. Men of title and importance were set down next to penniless baritones from the chorus. Their only point of commonality was the brevity of their sojourns at her side.
         When she reached the section of the report dealing with her affair with Fernand de Lisle, her hand shook so badly she had difficulty reading the tidy script. Mr. Harris considered Arabella a willing accomplice to de Lisle’s activities and recommended she be closely watched or better yet, turned over to the authorities.
         How could Sebastian have ordered this witch hunt into her privacy?
          She’d told him everything except the sorry bit about the maestro. When her singing master died, she’d come to terms with what had happened and decided it had not been her fault. She’d been more than a child, but not quite a woman. She was not responsible. It was something she reckoned long buried and of no import to anyone but herself.
         How had Sebastian’s agent even unearthed the sordid mess?    
         The rest of her life she took full responsibility for. She went into each affair with her eyes wide open and conducted the liaison on her own terms.
         Except with Fernand . He definitely had the upper hand now since he had possession of their daughter.
         And with Sebastian . Against her better judgment, she’d allowed him to take