"The Cock and Pheasant!" The fat man was so overcome with merriment, he choked on the cheap gin he had been swilling, spraying it in droplets over his companion as he tried to catch his breath. Recovering himself, he refilled his mug and continued. " 'Ow many times 'ave we 'ad one of them poor blokes come up ter us axin' us where the Cock and Pheasant might be?"

"Last one that axed me," his companion responded, once more digging his fingers into his scalp, "I tole 'im ter try Drury Lane, I did. Blimey if I was gonna be the one ter tell 'im there weren't no Cock and Pheasant anywhere and 'e'd better check 'is pockets."

At that very moment the subject of the gin shop discussion was huddled in a dark, peeling doorway near Glasshouse Street, trying to find some protection from the night's drizzle. Although she was near the Hay market, as the gin drinkers had predicted, she had not ventured out into the actual bustle of that famous center of London's nightlife, for the memory of Sweeney Pope's tragic fate had never left her. As a pickpocket, the risks were great enough without hobnobbing with the upper classes. Besides, the blue devils, as the members of the newly created police force were called, were vigilant about protecting the ton.

Underneath her damp, shabby cloak Noelle wore a once-elegant emerald-green satin gown. The material was now faded and badly stained under the arms and across the skirt, the black lace trim tattered at the deep rim of the bodice. In some places it was evident that the tired seams of the garment had split open. Although Noelle had sewn them together again, the uneven stitches and bright yellow thread offered mute testimony to her ineptness as a seamstress.

Even though she was not quite eighteen, she looked ten years older. The tiny elfin face that Daisy had loved so much was smeared with scarlet rouge; the topaz eyes, no longer luminous, were dim and darkly outlined with kohl. She was tall but excruciatingly thin, with hollow cheeks and a dirty neck. Her complexion was almost cadaverous, an effect that was heightened by her unfortunate hair. In an attempt to keep it free of vermin, she had cropped it just below her earlobes. Since she had no mirror and only a knife to do the cutting, it was ragged and uneven. It was also orange. Not a deep auburn or a warm chestnut, but a hue that most closely resembled a string of withered carrots. When she had first made up her mind to pose as a prostitute, she had decided to alter her hair to make herself look older. But repeated use of the unstable dyes had resulted in a noxious frizz that was now sorrowfully decorated with a single, limp ostrich plume.

Her appearance was so unappealing that at first glance it was difficult to tell how posing as a whore had helped her become such a successful pickpocket. But a more careful assessment revealed a certain sensuousness about the mouth, an appealing huskiness of voice, and, of course, pushing themselves above the top of her plunging neckline, the swelling breasts that had become an object of speculation among men and boys throughout Soho. All of these qualities hinted at the great beauty that poverty had stolen from Noelle Dorian.

At the moment Noelle was trying to decide whether she should stick it out a bit longer, in the hopes that the drizzle would let up, or return to her room. Just a little longer, she decided, for the truth was she was short of cash to pay the rent for her lodgings. She had been careless not to have watched her pennies better; now she stood in danger of losing her privacy, and she couldn't bear that. The room was tiny and squalid, but at least it was not in a cellar and she was alone.

She grimaced as she thought of the years after Daisy's death and the damp hovel she had been forced to share with as many as fifteen inhabitants crowded together at one time. Most were orphans like herself, some younger and some older. She remembered twelve-year-old Meg Watkins standing guard over her infant to keep the rats from feeding off his tiny body while he slept. And Bardy, the old man who had befriended them, guarding their meager possessions while they were out scrounging for food. He was nearly blind now, but he still lived in the hotel, and Noelle saw him as often as she could manage.

She had come up in the world since those early days. Not far, but enough to have her own room and a bit of food. And there's nobody who's going to make me give that up easily, she told herself as she peered down the narrow street in search of a likely mark. She knew she should be better off than she was, but she couldn't seem to set any money by. She was an easy touch. She smiled to herself as she thought of the little street urchins who now lived in the hovel from which she had escaped. Their bellies were fuller than hers had been because of the money she slipped Bardy to feed them.

At the sound of wooden wheels clattering on the cobblestones, Noelle looked up to see Billy the ragman approaching, pushing his grumbling cart down the deserted alley. She sighed, knowing the inevitability of what was coming.

"Well, if it ain't 'Ighness 'erself." He doffed his muddy cap and bowed mockingly. "And wot would 'Er 'Ighness be doin' so far from Buckingham 'ouse on a night like this? King Willie decide 'e don't want a pickpocket in 'is bed? Or did 'e just get tired of stickin' it ter a block of ice?"

Noelle stared stonily past him.

"Won't talk ter the likes o' me?" He abandoned his pushcart and shuffled up to her. "Someday, 'Ighness," he said, leering, revealing the rotted stubs of his front teeth, "yer gonna find out that yer ain't no different from the rest of us. Yer 'igh and mighty airs don't mean nothin.' "

Noelle leveled a cold glance at him. "Leave me alone," she retorted, clipping each word precisely.

Billy thrust his face inches from hers. She recoiled from his foul breath.

"I seen the way yer strut up ter them toffs, shakin' yer tits at 'em, leadin' 'em on so's all they think about's the fun they're gonna 'ave 'tween yer legs." He fingered himself obscenely through his filthy trousers. " 'Ow 'bout rubbin' up 'gainst old Billy, 'Ighness?" He stuck out one clawlike hand and reached toward her breast.

Noelle leaped back from him, pulling a lethal-looking knife from her pocket. She jabbed it in the air, stopping barely an inch from Billy's throat. "Get away from me, Billy, before I take a slice out of your filthy face." Her voice was menacing; her face a mask of determination.

He leaped back angrily. "God damn yer, bitch. One of these days somebody's gonna get yer, and ya won't soon forget it." A thin trail of spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth.

"Get away from me, you scum, or I'll fix you so you'll never put your dirty hands on another woman!"

Something in Noelle's face caused Billy to retreat hastily to his cart. He'd pushed the Highness too far. He thought of Jim Wheeler with the jagged red scar across his cheek. Others had found out too well what happened when they tangled with her. Muttering under his breath, he hobbled quickly down the alley, the cart creaking ominously at its unaccustomed speed.

Noelle was trembling as she slipped the sharp knife into the top of her boot. How much longer could she hold out against Billy and the others? She knew she was playing a dangerous game. Noelle shuddered as she watched two old hags with their leering faces and thick lips pass her. They'd been young once, but they'd sold their youth for a few pence and then spent the takings on bad gin.

How could they sell their bodies? Nothing, not even starvation, was as horrible as that. The memories of the men who had abused Daisy crowded unbidden into her mind. She had found her own way to get even with them, she thought grimly. It was not accidental that she had decided to pose as a prostitute. Each time she left a man lusting hungrily after her but ignorant of his empty pockets, she felt as though she had, in a small way, avenged Daisy's death.

The sound of deep laughter caught Noelle's attention. At the end of the narrow alley two men stood, caught in the soft yellow glow from the lone streetlamp. Noelle's breath quickened. She knew by their dress that they were gentlemen. What were they doing so far from the pleasures of the Haymarket?

She thought carefully. One of the reasons she was successful was that she did not take chances. Toffs were bad luck; she had made it a rule to stay away from them. Only once had she broken that rule, but he had been old and feeble. She had also been well rewarded, she reminded herself. The pockets of the upper classes were filled with silver. Expensive watches rested at the ends of golden fobs. Their silk handkerchiefs alone could fetch as much as a shilling from the pawnbrokers in Drury Lane.

Of course there were problems. Many of these gentlemen now carried paper bank notes in their pockets instead of silver. She bit thoughtfully at her bottom lip. Trying to use one of these bank notes was tricky. None of the street peddlers would take them, and despite the upper-class accent she had struggled so hard to maintain, she would have no luck passing the paper on to a more respectable merchant without raising suspicion. Of course, she could always sell the notes to the pawnbroker, but her practical nature rebelled at that because the amount received for the notes was always significantly less than their face value. Silently she laughed at herself. Here she was worrying about getting rid of the paper money before she even had it.

She looked again at the two men. Although she couldn't see them clearly, she sensed they were young. She needed money so badly, she just might risk it. I've been lucky so far, she reminded herself-but no, that wasn't quite true. It hadn't just been luck; she had been careful. She had not taken foolish chances. And setting upon two rich young gentlemen was foolish. She stood there indecisively, then reluctantly began to turn away just as the shorter of the two stumbled, barely saving himself from falling onto the muddy cobblestones.

Why, he's drunk, Noelle thought, her interest caught anew. That does change the odds a bit, doesn't it?

Sidestepping a pile of rotting garbage, she moved from the doorway that had provided such poor protection from the drizzle and stealthily crept closer to the men, finally concealing herself in a small recess between two buildings.

The shorter of the two turned. He had a boyish face with full cheeks and small merry eyes. Unruly sandy hair peeked out from under a tall beaver hat.

"Quinn, old boy," he addressed his companion, "sorry to be such a deuced poor guide, but I'm afraid I've got us lost." He punctuated this pronouncement with a loud hiccup. "Bradley's Hotel should have been right here." Gesturing vaguely into the night air. he took a final swallow from the bottle he held before passing it on to his companion.

"Don't worry, Tom." His companion's voice was deep and strong, the American accent unfamiliar to Noelle. "At least we'll both be spared an unpleasant evening with Simon." He drank deeply from the bottle.

Noelle strained to see the face of the speaker, the man called Quinn, but he remained turned away from her. He was even taller than she had first imagined. Powerful shoulders thrust against the seams of his coat. He was hatless, and the raindrops in his raven-black hair sparkled in the glow of the streetlamp.

"Come now, Quinn. your father's not a bad sort," Thomas expostulated, lowering himself unsteadily onto an adjacent doorstep. "The old boy could have left you home in America to run the company. Instead you're here, renewing our schoolboy friendship and enjoying London's elegant nightlife." He laughed uproariously at the irony of his own poor joke.

"I wish to God he had," Quinn replied sourly, handing the bottle back to Thomas. "All he's done these past three months is lecture me about my unsuitability to be the heir of Copeland and Peale."

Noelle's ears picked up at this reference. She had no idea that Copeland and Peale was a small but prestigious builder of oceangoing ships; she only knew that such an imposing name undoubtedly meant money.

If I could just see his face, she thought. I've no intention of taking him on cold sober. She shuddered slightly as she again observed his broad, powerful shoulders.

Quinn continued bitterly, "My God, I think he's gone crazy. He can't seem to look to the future. He's going to ruin Copeland and Peale with his damned pig-headed stubbornness."

Privately Thomas thought Simon wasn't the only stubborn one, but he wisely kept this opinion to himself.

"He refuses to put up any capital for experimentation. The initial studies I've done on hull shape are staggering, but they need to be extended. We could revolutionize the China trade, but Simon refuses to take them seriously. Even conservatively, Tom, Copeland and Peale ships could make the New York to Canton run in one hundred and ten days and be back in less than ninety."