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don’t fool me, Miss Lovelace,” he charged. “You were playing Ganymede.”
    “Oh, indeed, I—” She stopped in confusion. What was Ganymede? It sounded vaguely familiar, but she could not recall where she had read it.
    “And who else but a Rosalind should pose as a gentleman to gain her end?” Sylvester continued. “I am referring, of course, to Shakespeare’s As You Like It, in which the fair Rosalind assumes the guise of a man, Ganymede. It is an excellent jest. Superb. I shall mention our clever stunt, using a gentleman’s name to coerce my readers into taking your work seriously. We shall be quite open and honest about it. It was a hoax. Nay, we shall be aggressive in our attack. Ladies’ talents have been overlooked for too long. They will be green with envy at the Edinburgh Review.”
    It did not seem the proper moment to mention that Miss Lovelace’s poems had been rejected by Camena, as well as other literary magazines. Rosalind noticed that her stunt had become our stunt, and as the visit continued, it became entirely Lord Sylvester’s stunt. She was so relieved he had accepted her that she just smiled her agreement with everything he said until the tea was consumed. She noticed that Lord Sylvester ate practically nothing, perhaps to allow his tongue freedom to wag.
    Rosalind enjoyed the visit. The corner of Kent where she lived was thin of literary folk. Lord Sylvester knew everyone famous and had amusing anecdotes about them to relate. He was also undeniably knowledgeable about literary matters. He was a great talker, but a fatiguing one, for he expected praise for his ideas, laughter for his slightest jest, and scorn to match his disparagement of any other literary review than Camena.
    He had been in the saloon for only forty-five minutes, but it seemed longer. When he mentioned leaving, Dick leapt from his chair like a grasshopper to accompany him to the door. Rosalind did not urge Lord Sylvester very strenuously to remain, although she had enjoyed his company.
    “Must you go so soon?” she said politely, assuming a positive answer.
    Before Lord Sylvester could reply, the door knocker sounded, and before Rucker, the butler, could get to the door, Lord Harwell’s hearty voice was heard. After one knock, he had let himself in. “It’s only me, Roz. I’ve brought Sukey’s kitten.”
    Of all the people who might have called, Harwell was the last one she wished to present to Lord Sylvester. At no point did their interests meet. Lord Sylvester’s only concerns appeared to be literary, while Harwell thought less of literature than of a spot of lint on his sleeve. It would be like struggling through a bramble bush to make conversation with the two of them at once. And on top of it, she did not want Harwell to know she had turned poet. She clenched her lips into a tight smile and waited.
     

Chapter Three
     
    The white kitten Lord Harwell held cradled in his arms was strangely at odds with his rakish appearance. “As if Zeus came calling with a rose in his hand in lieu of a thunderbolt” was Lord Sylvester’s first impression. Harwell’s opinion of Sylvester was equally unsettling. Surely this male milliner was not the gent who brought that glow to Roz Lovelace’s face? He was too young, too foppish, not up to her weight—though a very pretty fellow, to be sure. Rosalind’s obsequious behavior toward the young whelp left no doubt this was the man responsible for her new glow. Neither gentleman betrayed any of his feelings when Rosalind introduced them.
    “I believe we have rubbed shoulders at Brooke’s, milord,” Sylvester said, making an exquisite bow.
    “Very likely,” Harwell agreed. He switched the kitten to his left arm and pumped Sylvester’s hand. “You are Dunston’s younger son, if I am not mistaken?”
    “Just so. I believe my older brother, Lord Moffat, has the honor of your acquaintance.”
    “Indeed, I have known Moffat forever. We were at Eton together a hundred