They passed close by the turn to Bishopsgate. A scant half mile away Shelley and Mary were doubtless sitting on their diminutive terrace, the air about them scented with stock, and listening to the nightingale who had nested in the big lime tree at the foot of the garden. Charming and peaceful -- but what were charm and peace compared to high adventure? Alone with the fabulous Byron! How many women had longed for the privilege that was hers.

How was she to behave, Claire wondered. To be passive, to be girlishly shy was palpably absurd. She was the pursuer as clearly as was Venus in Shakespeare's poem. And while her Adonis did not suffer from inexperience, satiety might well be an equal handicap. No, she would not pretend modesty, but neither must she be crudely bold. Mystery -- that was the thing. In the bedroom she would insist on darkness. With his club foot he might well be grateful.

At the inn, which was situated close to a broad weir, Byron was greeted by the landlord with obsequious deference and addressed as ``milord.'' The place was evidently a familiar haunt and Claire wondered what other illicit loves had been celebrated in the comfortable rooms to which they were shown.

The fire in the sitting room was lighted.

``What about the bedroom?'' Byron inquired. ``Seems to me last time I was here the grate bellowed out smoke as it might have been preparing us for hell.''