"So who the hell is this, Marblethorpe?" His voice was lazy, though he already knew exactly what this pathetic creature was.

"You know perfectly well, Alistair," Wesley said in a stiff voice. "Miss Strong can provide the one element we need to make our revels complete. Indeed, she's probably the only one in Venice, unless you're willing to involve children, and I believe you all overruled me on that?"

"You're a sick bastard, Wesley," Alistair said evenly, turning to look at the woman. She'd started at the mention of his name--clearly his reputation preceded him, even among little gray wrens. She seemed oddly familiar, but he was certain he'd never seen her before.

"Miss Strong," Wesley said, and the woman looked up, slightly dazed. She was pale, but her bone structure was lovely, he thought dispassionately. Too thin for the optimal sensual pleasures, but there was still something indisputably appealing.

There were no fresh glasses on the table, and he didn't want any of his servants bothering them, so he refilled his own glass of wine, rose, and sauntered over to stand in front her. It took her a moment to look up, and when she did so, he noticed she had particularly lovely eyes. A warm brown, almost like rich chocolate, though at the moment she could barely focus. He wondered if she were a laudanum addict--they often were too thin and had that dazed look.

He put the wineglass in her cold, gloveless hand. "Here," he said, "Drink this. You'll need it before you hear Wesley's proposition."

"I shouldn't," she said, and it was no polite demurral. She really thought she shouldn't.

He didn't care what she thought. "Drink it."

She did, and a faint blush of color rose to her pale cheeks. She started to thank him, but he turned away, taking his seat once more, ignoring the astonished looks from his fellow rakehells.

He shrugged in response to the unasked question. "She's just so damned pathetic," he said.

She raised her head at that, and her brown eyes sharpened. So, she was more alert than she seemed. Well, she was pathetic. Pale, thin, half-drowned.

He waved a hand at Marblethorpe to continue, and he did so with a portentous clearing of his throat.

"As I was saying," he continued, his high, nasal voice only slightly slurred. "Miss Strong is a virtuous gentlewoman fallen on hard times. She arrived in Venice four months ago as the governess to the children of Mr. and Mrs. Brandon. After two months she was summarily turned out for improper behavior. She was able to secure another post, which lasted less than a week once Mrs. Brandon paid her new employers a visit. Since then she's been eking out a living with English and Italian lessons and the occasional fine needlework. As you can see, the perfect impoverished English gentlewoman."

Marblethorpe was like a cat with a mouse. He liked to torture any poor creature he managed to capture. Usually Alistair didn't mind. In fact, he didn't mind now, he told himself, watching her.

"Would you tell us why you were dismissed, Miss Strong?" Jasper Fenton was slightly less drunk than the evening's ringleader and therefore able to form a coherent sentence.

She'd ducked her head again, her shoulders bowed, but she looked up at that. "Gross immorality, sir," she whispered.

"Demme, Wesley, we need a virgin, not a blasted soiled rose," Lord Maxwell protested.

"Hush, Maxwell," Marblethorpe said. "Give the upright and pure Miss Strong a chance to defend herself. Were you, in fact, guilty of these immoral transgressions?"

"No, sir." Her voice wasn't much more than a whisper. She'd drained his glass of wine, Alistair noticed, and she was clinging to the empty glass so tightly he thought it might snap. It would cut her hand if it did, but he decided he'd used up his full allotment of Christian mercy for the next decade, so he waited.

"So you are, in fact, a virgin?" Maxwell continued.

She looked at Marblethorpe then, and he'd never seen anyone look more defeated in his life. "I was inquiring about a job as a governess to your little sister, Sir Wesley. I assure you that despite Mrs. Brandon's unfortunate misapprehensions I am more than capable of providing a moral and challenging education for your sister."

"A bit late for that," Wesley said cheerfully. "Elspeth's married with two brats, and she's been having affairs since she got back from her honeymoon. I expect every man in this room has had her at one time or another."

There was a chorus of drunken assents. Alistair said nothing. He'd been the first, seducing her away from her older husband out of boredom. If he hadn't, the next man would have, he thought, still watching the drowned kitten before him.

No, that wasn't quite it. A drowned cat. There was a flash of real fire in her eyes. "Then if you aren't in need of a governess, why, pray, am I here?"

"In fact, we are in need of a virtuous woman," Wesley announced. "A virgin, in fact. And it sounds as if, rumors to the contrary, you qualify?"

She said nothing, waiting.

"Well, then," Wesley continued, only slightly ruffled by her lack of response. "We both appear to have problems that are easily solved. You're in need of money to discharge your debts and pay passage home to London, am I right?" He didn't wait for an answer. "And you have a commodity that interests us, one we're willing to pay highly for. Your virginity."

She tried to rise, but Marblethorpe dropped his hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down.

Alistair rose then, ambling across the room, and removed Wesley's thick hand. "If we're doing this, and apparently we are, she needs to agree to it without any coercion from you. Look at me, Miss Strong."

She didn't move, her head and shoulders bowed.

"Look at me!" he snapped, and she jerked her head up. Her eyes were no longer a dull brown, they were blazing with rage. "That's better," he said in his coolest voice, the one his mistress once complained could freeze hell. "Do you understand what Sir Wesley is asking of you? What we're asking of you?"

"A-all of you?" she stammered.

He glanced back at Wesley. "No, not all. One of us. We're asking you to offer up your virginity in return for financial security and a swift trip home."

"A few short hours," Wesley broke in eagerly. "No restraints, no whips. Just coitus."

"Penetration and the breaking of your maidenhead," Alistair continued. "With an audience."

He wouldn't have thought she could turn any paler. She looked up at him with such hatred in her eyes that he was taken aback. What had he ever done to hurt her that she would despise him so? It was Marblethorpe who had lured her here under false pretenses.

And then the animation left her eyes. "Yes," she said in a voice so low he couldn't believe he'd heard it.

"Louder, Miss Strong. We need everyone to hear your assent." His voice was like a lash, trying to sting her. He was furious, and he couldn't imagine why. Despoiling a willing virgin as part of their silly gathering was harmless. He was a firm believer that any excess was permissible so long as those involved were in agreement, and when Marblethorpe had proposed the notion of the ritual breaking of a hymen, he'd found the idea vaguely erotic. Still did, if he looked at Miss Kathleen Strong, though he wasn't sure he'd like an audience for it.

"I said I agree," she said in a stronger voice. "On one condition."

"Name it," Marblethorpe said eagerly, but she didn't look away from Alistair.

"That the man chosen isn't you."

It shocked Alistair, when he thought he was past being surprised by anything. And then he laughed. "It shall be as you wish, though I do need to tell you that you're rejecting a true master of the erotic arts. Be that as it may, how shall we decide who gets this particular treasure?" His voice was sarcastic, almost cruel, surprising himself. Had the wretched creature actually offended him? Apparently she had.

"I found her, I should get her," Marblethorpe said eagerly.

"Not fair!" Jasper protested. "I say we wager for it."

"Then do so," Alistair said in a bored voice. "Take your prize and go away. I'm in need of a nap if I'm going to be up for a certifiable orgy tonight."

"Tonight?" the woman whispered.

He glanced down at her. "Tonight. Don't worry, Miss Strong. The sooner it's done the sooner it's over, and you can be on your way back to England and forget this ever happened."

She said nothing, and he turned his back on her, washing his hands of the whole tedious situation. He'd done his best for the wretched creature, God knew why, when he himself had the irrational urge to bed her. An hour ago, after a vigorous night, he thought he'd never want sex again.

But he did. With her. And he didn't want anyone else to have her, which was ridiculous. He'd always shared his lovers. The whole situation made no sense.

"You can see yourselves out," he said. And he walked away from them, closing the door behind him.

Kathleen heard them talking. He was gone, and her last bit of strength left her.

"What's wrong with Rohan?" one man said. "He hasn't changed his mind about all this, has he? It isn't like him."

"Of course not," another man said. "He's been setting a prodigious example for all of us in his drinking and wenching. I imagine he's worn out. I'm just demmed sorry he's not going to have the virgin--I would have liked to observe his technique. I'm betting he could have made her climax."

"I'm certain any of us are capable of doing the deed," Marblethorpe said. "Come, let's go to my place and play cards for her. Or shall we use the dice?"

"What will we do about her in the meantime?"

Oh, please God, feed me, she thought wearily.

"Leave her here. We'll be gathering here tonight anyway and if we take her with us we might misplace her. Alistair won't touch her, rules and all that."