A man was standing in the doorway, one shoulder resting against the jamb. He was in black and white evening dress and against the raucous colour of the brothel with its damask walls and peacock drapes he looked stark and almost too plainly attired. He was tall with black hair cut short and eyes of a startling, striking blue in a lean, watchful face. Lottie felt Hagan stiffen, as though sensing a rival.

"Sir-" Hagan’s face had reddened. "You intrude. You must wait your turn."

The stranger’s eyes met Lottie’s. His gaze was so bright and piercing that she felt her breath catch. Odd, she thought, that in that moment there was something in his eyes that looked almost like reassurance. Odd and impossible, an illusion, for then he smiled and any impression of gentleness was banished. He strode forward, self-assured, dangerous.

"Oh, I do not think so," he murmured. "I don’t wait in line."

Hagan opened his mouth to speak but it was Mrs Tong who intervened now, a sweep of her hand silencing him.

"My lord…" Lottie could not quite place the tone in the bawd’s voice. There was deference there, certainly, but something else too. Wariness? Lottie had known all manner of men, from over-refined dandies to brutish bucks, but she had never met a man whose presence felt quite so elemental. There was danger in the room. She felt it in the air and with a prickle down her spine. Suddenly the atmosphere was alive.

"I am sure Mr Hagan would not mind waiting," Mrs Tong said smoothly. "If you would be so good, sir… Can I offer you a glass of wine perhaps? On the house?" She was already shepherding Hagan towards to door. The newcomer stood aside with studied amusement to allow him to pass. Lottie let out her breath on a sigh she had thought was silent until the man cast her a quick, appraising glance.

The door closed.

"You are Charlotte Cummings?" The stranger asked.

"No," Lottie said. "Not any more." The only thing she had wanted from Gregory was money. He could keep his name. It was no use to her. "I am Charlotte Palliser now," she said.

The man inclined his head. "I had heard that the Pallisers had disowned you."

"They cannot take my name," Lottie said. "I was born with it."

He did not reply at once. He was watching her with that same acute interest that he had shown from the moment he had set eyes on her. His gaze held no sexual appraisal, only a cool calculation that made Lottie shiver for there was no softness in it at all.

"May I?" He gestured to the armchair. She was surprised he troubled to ask permission. Such courtesy sat oddly with the sense that this was a man who would take what he wanted whether anyone opposed him or not.

He sat down and crossed one ankle over the other knee, lounging back with a casual grace. His whole body, so long and lean, looked elegantly relaxed and yet Lottie thought it would be a mistake to dismiss him as yet another fashionable Corinthian. There was too much forcefulness beneath the surface, too much power and intensity banked down.

"Who are you," Lottie said, "that Mrs Tong allows you to dictate to her and does not even make you pay in advance?" It appeared that he was not intent on hurrying her into bed, whoever he was.

He laughed. "Ethan Ryder, at your service." There was a wicked spark in his blue eyes. "And I pay afterwards." He raised an eyebrow. "I do believe you’re blushing. How singular – in a courtesan."