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He would let Belinda think they were business messages, but in fact, he meant to leave farewell messages for both Katie and Sally.

If he was going to pretend to be a reformed rake who had met the woman of his dreams, it would be wrong to continue his association with said ladies.

Even though theirs was purely a financial arrangement to keep the matchmaking mamas away, his deceit was one he’d prefer Society to know nothing about.

He was sure the women would understand, and he’d sweeten the pill with a generous handout and some carefully chosen jewelry.

But he needed to do it as soon as possible before they heard about his engagement and started kicking up a fuss, as most of the actresses he knew were prone to do.

It wouldn’t take him long to go into the manager’s office and pen a couple of missives to his lady friends.

“I have no objection to a brief stop at the Old Forum. It would be entertaining to see what the theater looks like with nobody in it—even to go backstage.”

“I will give you the full tour at the earliest opportunity.”

There was a sudden spattering noise on the roof and windows of the carriage. Typical! He’d been staying in one of the wettest parts of the country and had mostly enjoyed dry weather, yet on returning to the capital, he’d been greeted with a downpour.

“I think we’ll let the carriage go when we reach the theater, and hail ourselves a hackney carriage to take you to George Street and to take me home. Our coachman won’t want his horses standing around in the rain—and I should think he’d want some shelter as well.”

It was fully dark by the time the coach clattered to a halt in the street outside the Old Forum.

Piers directed the man to take their luggage to George Street, and quickly penciled a note to be left for Roland Chetwynd.

Then he paid the man off, put an arm around Belinda’s waist to help her walk, and headed for the main doors of the theater.

Deuce take it! They were locked already.

He flipped open his watch and attempted to read it in the flickering light of a streetlamp.

They must have closed early for some reason—but the caretaker should still be around.

With any luck, the stage door would not yet be closed, and if it were, Phillips would hear him knocking and let them in.

“Change of plan, Belinda. Sorry—you may be getting that theater tour sooner than you expected. Can you manage the steps again, or shall I carry you?”

“Much as I would enjoy being carried, it won’t stop either of us from getting wetter, and Araminta would be distressed if anyone saw us. You’re far better known here than I am, and your reputation precedes you. Thus, my reputation would be ground into the mud if we were seen by any of the tabbies.”

He rolled his eyes. It was a great pity he was to be deprived of the luxury of having her in his arms again, but he completely understood her situation.

They made their way down a dark alleyway, and—much to his relief—the stage door gave way to his touch and he escorted Belinda inside. The passageway was still illuminated, and by its light, he saw that she was looking like a drowned rat.

“Yet another change of plan, I fear. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

She stepped away and looked him up and down. “If it isn’t too forward of me, sir, I suggest that you do, as well.”

He didn’t give a damn about himself, but he could not allow Belinda to catch a chill.

There was a fireplace in the costume store—only a small one, but enough to reduce the chill in the air in winter.

He’d get that lit and warm the room up, and they could find something to put on while their clothes dried.

Then he could write those messages to Katie and Sally.

On further consideration, it might be better if he spoke to them in person.

Sending a message to someone who’d been your faithful ally in a continuous charade would not suffice—it would be cowardly of him not to speak to the ladies directly.

So, all he had to do for the time being was ensure that Belinda dried off, and they continued their journey to George Street.

Pushing open the door to the costume room, he discovered the usual post-performance chaos. He would be obliged to have a word with his thespians—it was unfair that they should leave everything to the dressers to sort out, and it was bad for the costumes not to be hung up immediately.

Reaching into a heap, he pulled out an antiquated-looking gown. “This has cross-lacing, so it can adjust to your figure. There should be an under-shift around somewhere—here it is! There’s a screen over there, for privacy.”

She took the items and stared at him uncertainly. “What about you?”

“Don’t wait for me—there’s only room for one person behind that screen—unfortunately. I’ll get the fire going. If you throw your things out to me, I’ll drape them by the fire as best I can.”

As soon as she disappeared behind the screen, he flung off his clothes and hunted through the heap for some men’s garments. Aha! There were some breeches and stockings, and a shirt and doublet. They’d do.

He crouched down by the hearth, grateful to have something to do.

The fact that both Belinda and he had been, however briefly, naked in the same room, was doing something to his body that did not befit a gallant gentleman.

As he raked up the cinders and piled some kindling and coal on top it was impossible not to imagine a naked Belinda behind the screen.

When the fire was lit, and the first flames began to lick up the chimney, he then started picturing an unclothed Belinda in front of the fire, with the golden light sliding across her naked breasts.

He must stop thinking like this—he was having trouble breathing!

Backing away from the fire, he glanced toward the screen and saw a heap of feminine clothing draped over it.

Think of nothing! Think of nothing! Stepping across, he nobly averted his face from the screen, scooped up the clothing, and spread it over a clothes rail near the fire.

It was as much as he could do not to stare at it, and imagine himself stripping off each item, one at a time, with a luxurious laziness that would prolong his ardor.

How optimistic the male body was! He had just undertaken a lengthy and wearying journey from the far west of England into the capital and had his plans overturned and been soaked to the skin.

He should be tired and cross, but the presence of a divinely attractive female in the same room had overtaken every other thought but that of making love to her.

“I’m almost ready but I need some help.”

Help? That sounded promising, considering the direction his thoughts had been taking.

“Come out—the fire’s alight.”

“I won’t be a moment.”

He remained hunkered down by the fire, staring into the leaping flames and enjoying the spreading warmth.

He ran a hand through his limp hair and brushed it away from his forehead.

There must be a towel somewhere—she’d need it for her hair.

Would she need any help with that? With brushing and untangling those curls? His fingers ached to perform the task.

Aside from the wafting whisper of the flames, the room was quiet. He held his breath, awaiting Belinda’s grand entrance. There was a metallic scraping sound behind him. It took a moment for the realization to hit, and when it did, Piers was at the door instantly, shouting and banging.

There was no response. He tried the handle, but already his heart was sinking, knowing what the result would be.

Phillips had just completed his nightly routine and locked all the doors.

Piers and Belinda were imprisoned until morning.