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Her voice steadied as her resolve returned. “I do not believe a libertine truly falls in love. He pursues pleasure, even when it causes harm. I cannot say what Lord Templeton believed he felt for me, but it was not the beginning of anything.”

Shock widened the countess's eyes. Then her expression softened. “From the tremor in your voice and the pain in your expression,” she said gently, “I believe that, like my son, you too were beginning to fall in love.”

A small, wounded sound escaped Cordelia before she could stop it, and she pressed a hand to her chest.

“Permit this interfering old woman a moment of counsel,” the countess said kindly. “Give yourself the opportunity to know him. Guard your heart well. Do not allow it to fall any further just yet. But if, in learning who George truly is, you discover him to be a gentleman worthy of your affection, then do not fear what your heart may choose.”

Her smile held both warmth and quiet shrewdness. “I should hate to see something end before it has truly had the chance to begin. I confess, I have selfish reasons as well, particularly when one's son bears the unfortunate reputation of being a cold-hearted rake.”

She rose, and Cordelia stood at once. After exchanging a few final pleasantries with her mother, the countess took her leave. Cordelia withdrew to the library, feeling strangely unmoored. Yet as she sank into a familiar chair, the restlessness that had plagued her these past nights began, at last, to ease. Somehow, the countess’s words had settled into place.

She bit her lower lip.

How am I to get to know him? And do I even wish to?

Cordelia hoped it was not desperation urging her forward. Yet the very fact that she questioned her own motives told her something important. If she did not make the effort to know the man beyond that single night in the gardens, she suspected she would carry the weight of that unanswered question for the rest of her life.

She would proceed with her eyes open. She would discover who George, Viscount Templeton, truly was. What occupied his days beyond breaking his fast with his family. How he spent the hours instead of attending the balls he found so tedious. What captured his interest. What stirred his soul. And whether she dared risk her own heart in learning the answers.

Yes, a quiet voice whispered within her.

A chance at happiness. A home of her own. A husband to love, and children to cherish. Those dreams were worth the risk. Only this time, she would not allow George to show her the man he wished her to see. She intended to uncover the truth for herself.

Cordelia lowered her paintbrush and turned away from the watercolor she had been attempting to complete. For the past few days, she had deliberately occupied herself with reading, needlework, and painting, all the while hoping her cousin might unearth some useful tidbit concerning the viscount.

Now, with Emelia standing before her, Cordelia stared at her cousin as though she had quite lost her senses. “What did you say?”

Emelia nodded, her expression solemn, though Cordelia suspected she was enjoying this revelation far more than she ought. She was beginning to regret having asked her cousin to make discreet inquiries into the viscount’s private affairs.

“Lady Prudence told me something quite extraordinary. Apparently, she overheard her brother speaking with Lord Fairchild about a certain establishment in London. She was not meant to hear them, of course, but they were in the library, and neither gentleman realized she was sitting behind the screen near the window.”

“And what has this to do with Lord Templeton?”

“Everything! Prudence heard his name mentioned several times. Apparently, he is a frequent visitor to a place called Aphrodite.” Emelia leaned closer, lowering her voice. “It is a pleasure palace, Cori. A most scandalous establishment where gentlemen go to indulge their wickedest desires.”

Cordelia blinked. “Aphrodite?”

“Yes. Prudence was not entirely certain what a pleasure palace entailed, so she asked her brother about it afterward. He was apparently horrified that she had overheard anything and refused to explain, which only made her more curious. She managed to learn from her maid that it is rather like a brothel, only much grander, with private chambers, elaborate entertainments, and beautiful ladies who are paid to entertain the gentlemen.”

“Good heavens!” Cordelia pressed a hand to her heated cheek. “You cannot mean that Lord Templeton visits such a place?”

“With considerable regularity, according to Prudence’s brother.”

Cordelia could only stare at her cousin. She was hardly ignorant of the existence of brothels. Every respectable young lady knew, however vaguely, that there were establishments where gentlemen sought pleasures denied them in polite society. Such matters were never discussed openly, of course, and Cordelia had always regarded them as belonging to a world so far removed from her own that she had scarcely given them any thought.

But George?

The gentleman who played the pianoforte so beautifully, who teased her over chess and listened with such genuine interest when she spoke of the things she loved, regularly visited a house where women sold their intimate favors? The thought was almost impossible to reconcile with the man she knew.

Yet why should it surprise her? She had seen him with Lady Ashcombe upon his lap, kissing her with an intimacy that had left Cordelia heartsick. He had never pretended to be a saint, and his reputation had been well established long before she had discovered his identity. Still, there was something particularly shocking about imagining him deliberately seeking out such an establishment, choosing a woman from among those available, and retiring with her to a private chamber. Cordelia's stomach tightened at the image her treacherous imagination supplied.

“Are you quite certain Lady Prudence heard correctly?”

“As certain as one can be when repeating something overheard by another person,” Emelia admitted. “But Prudence was quite emphatic, and her brother's reaction rather suggests there was truth to it.”

Cordelia drew a slow breath. She ought not to have asked these questions. Every new discovery merely confirmed what she already knew, that Lord Templeton was a practiced libertine whose charming manners concealed a thoroughly scandalous private life.

“There is something else,” Emelia continued. “Prudence said that many of the ladies who attend Aphrodite wear masks and wigs to conceal their identities. Apparently, not everyone who visits wishes to be recognized.”