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“I still cannot believe you placed your reputation at risk by sneaking into his home not once but several times. And now I find myself facilitating another of your mad, reckless schemes!” Katherine shook her head in exasperation. “Men like Lord Templeton are far better suited to ladies such as Victoria, who possess experience of the world and do not expect the devotion and affection I know you would desire from a husband.”

Cordelia lowered her gaze to her clasped hands. “I simply wish to know the whole of him before I decide what to believe. I cannot reconcile the gentleman I have come to know with everything I have heard about him, and I would rather discover the truth for myself than rely upon gossip.” She looked up at her sister. “I promise I shall be careful.”

Katherine closed her eyes in quiet resignation, and guilt pricked at Cordelia's conscience. Her sister had never approved of this undertaking, but she also knew Cordelia well enough to understand that refusing to help would merely compel her to devise some other means of carrying out her intentions.

Silence settled between them as they followed George's carriage through the London streets. At last, the vehicle ahead slowed to a stop, and their own coachman drew up a discreet distance behind it. Cordelia leaned forward, watching as George stepped down, exchanged a few words with the footman, and disappeared through the entrance of an imposing establishment.

“This is Aphrodite,” she murmured.

“I shall wait here for you,” Katherine said firmly. “No longer than fifteen minutes.”

Cordelia turned to stare at her. “Do not be absurd, Kat. What could I possibly discover in fifteen minutes? I may need to return several evenings before I can determine whether his conduct is consistent.”

“Then thirty minutes.”

“An hour,” Cordelia countered gently. “I am two and twenty, not a green debutante likely to swoon at the first glimpse of wickedness.”

Katherine fixed her with a withering look.

Cordelia wrinkled her nose. “Would you prefer to accompany me inside? It might ease your mind.”

“Good heavens, no!” Katherine recoiled at the suggestion. “I shall remain precisely where I am. But if an hour passes and you have not returned, I shall march inside after you, and heaven help anyone who attempts to prevent me.”

Warmth filled Cordelia’s chest. Smiling, she leaned across the carriage and pressed a kiss to her sister’s cheek. “Thank you, Kat.”

Gathering her courage, she stepped down from the carriage. Her silver slippers touched the pavement, and she adjusted her mask, ensuring that it sat securely against her face.

Then, drawing a slow, steadying breath, she turned toward the imposing entrance through which George had disappeared only moments before.

Dear God, please do not let this prove to be a dreadful mistake.

The façade of the pleasure palace was elegant rather than gaudy, its lamps casting a warm, golden glow over the brickwork, softening the night and hinting at the indulgences within. Cordelia hesitated at the foot of the steps, a flicker of uncertainty stirring within her. She had neglected one rather vital detail.

How did one enter such a place?

When she had first told Katherine of her plan, her sister had anxiously asked how she intended to gain admittance. Cordelia had declared, with considerably more confidence than sense, that she would invoke the viscount’s name. She had even persuaded herself that, should someone summon George to confirm her claim, he would protect her from exposure.

Only now, standing before the entrance, did she appreciate the folly of that notion. Was she truly prepared to announce herself as an acquaintance of Lord Templeton and demand admittance? The very thought made her wince. She had mistaken determination for a sensible plan.

What if a card were required? Or a personal introduction?

She was on the verge of retreating when a carriage drew up nearby, and two gentlemen emerged, deep in conversation. One wore a mask of black silk, while the other was barefaced, laughing softly at something his companion had said.

On instinct, Cordelia offered them a pleasant smile.

Not coyly or boldly, but with just enough familiarity to suggest she belonged there. As they passed, she hastened her steps and fell in behind them, keeping sufficiently close that anyone watching might reasonably assume she was part of their company. She lifted one gloved hand to adjust her mask as they approached the entrance.

The doorman scarcely spared her a glance.

And just like that, she was inside.

Warmth enveloped her, carrying the scents of amber, wine, and expensive perfume. Candlelight glimmered upon gilded surfaces and sumptuous fabrics, while the low murmur of conversation mingled with soft laughter and the distant strains of music. Women drifted past in silks and satins, some masked and others barefaced, their movements languid and their confidence unmistakable. Gentlemen lounged with equal ease, some having discarded their coats, their expressions indulgent and unguarded.

Cordelia’s pulse quickened.

No one spared her more than a passing glance. Relief washed through her, followed swiftly by renewed resolve. Drawing her shoulders back, she ventured farther into the room, the feathers of her mask swaying gently with each step. If Viscount Templeton came here seeking anonymity and indulgence, she meant to discover what drew him back so frequently. Perhaps she might observe enough to understand this side of his character.

This portion of the pleasure palace appeared to be a common thoroughfare, for a steady stream of patrons drifted toward an adjoining chamber concealed behind heavy damask drapes. Laughter spilled from beyond, low and unrestrained, mingling with sounds she could not immediately identify. She scanned the room once more, but George was nowhere in sight.