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What must it feel like to be so free?

“Everyone here is an artist of some kind,” the duke revealed. “Or a patron of the arts. Musicians, actors, painters, writers—you name it. For example, do you see that woman over there?”

Emily blinked, taking a moment to connect the wordwomanwith the stocky youth in breeches sitting on the window seat. She was, to Emily’s endless amazement, smoking apipe.

“I see her.”

“That is none other than Corderoy Jenkins.”

Emily sucked in a breath. “The novelist?Here? Oh, do introduce me to her, please!”

The duke—Cassian—laughed and headed towards the woman. She glanced up as they approached, her eyes narrowing. She had a round face, dusted with freckles, and auburn curls hung loose around her shoulders. She was not at all like the willowy Society beauties that were so praised, but there was an intriguing quality about her features and a spark in her brown eyes.

“Good evening, Corderoy,” Cassian greeted, executing a neat bow. “My friend requests an introduction.”

“I adore your books,” Emily burst out. “I readHaunting Of St. Cuthbert’sin one night. It wasthrilling. AndThe Mystery of Iowas simply perfect. And I?—”

“Hold on, hold on, let me introduceyou,” Cassian interrupted, laughing. “Corderoy, this is a good friend of mine, Miss Emily Belmont. You might know her as Anon.”

Emily flinched, staring up at him wide-eyed. She’d never heard herself introduced that way before.

Corderoy’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward.

“Thepainter? Heavens, how exciting! Do you know that they’re selling copies of your work in galleries? Everybody wants a framedAnonin their drawing rooms. Me included.”

She had a deep voice and a drawling northern accent. In a smooth motion, she tapped out the contents of her pipe into a small saucer on the windowsill.

Emily flushed. “Thank you. I… I am trying to remain anonymous, you know. I don’t want people to know that I’m the artist. Not yet, at least.”

“Understood.” Corderoy nodded. “I agree. That’s why I chose my pseudonym. My real name, you might as well know, is Cordelia Roy. My nickname as a child was Cordie-Roy, hence my pen name. It seemed to fit. I worry that nobody would buy my books if they knew I was a woman. You know, I have the duke here to thank for publishing my works. Is he your patron, too?”

Before Emily could answer, Cassian spoke up.

“Ahh, Emily here requires no patronage.” He chuckled.

Corderoy glanced briefly between them, her gaze giving away nothing.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she said, refilling her pipe. “Can I tempt either of you to some whiskey? Titus has brought a rather good bottle.”

“Titus?” Emily echoed, frowning. “You don’t mean?—”

“Why, yes, we do,” Cassian interrupted, gently taking her by the shoulders and turning her around. A man was approaching—a familiar one. “Surely, Emily, you cannot have forgotten the ever-enterprising Titus Greaves.”

Emily remembered him at once, of course—the man who’d been presented to her as the author of her paintings. He wasn’t as neatly dressed this time. A crumpled shirt poked out from underneath a bright waistcoat, and his hair was disheveled and unbrushed, instead of pomaded to within an inch of its life.

He wasn’t scowling at her either.

Grinning at her, Titus executed a dramatic bow. “Miss Emily Belmont! We meet again. I hope the circumstances are better this time.”

Emily blinked up at him, then glanced at Cassian for an explanation.

Cassian chuckled. “Mr. Greaves here is an actor, as I told you. A rather good one, although he has yet to find a foothold on the London stages. More’s the pity.”

Emily twisted around, leveling him with a steely glare. “Yes, I recall. I met him when you introduced him to me as the author ofmypaintings. I’m sure you remember the occasion.”

Cassian grimaced. “I’m afraid so. However, that is all in the past, my dear.”

Corderoy chuckled. “He’s a wretch, isn’t he? Come along, Your Grace. Let’s get some whiskey for these two. Titus, is that bottle where you left it?”