When the chiming bell summoned her to the dining room, Tegan raced for the stairs.

She felt positively radiant. In her scandalously revealing made-over gown, she had become another person, a confident woman ready to take on any challenge.

Even an orgy.

Let the grape peeling begin! She was ready. Not only ready, but open to any eventuality.

Was it only the made-over gown that inspired her newfound self-confidence, though? Or had some other hitherto unknown activity also contributed to her mindset? Perhaps, her assurance…and her decidedly energized euphoria…is what came of touching her privates?

Hmm.

Picking up her gown, she leaped onto the next stair, clearing the tread easily. After a one-footed landing, she tilted her jaw to the side and ruminated over the question.

Oh, rats! Who cared where her confidence had originated? If touching herself provoked this change in her, she would have to make touching herself a nightly ritual. That glorious, uplifting sensation that followed her stroking was too good to give up.

A grin broke over her face as she raced for the landing. Yes, indeedy, after one hundred strokes taken with a hairbrush, she would stroke herself the same number. Along with untangling her hair, she would untangle any knots of tension inside her. She was certainly unknotted now.

Her mind clear, every muscle relaxed, she planned her next move.

Practically speaking, she could ill afford to take chances. To that end, guarding her name was essential. Incriminating herself in wrongdoing would lead to horrible repercussions all around. Lest the robber baron connect her to her father, an unlikely occurrence given Mr. Griffith’s gross negligence of Central Mine, she would heed the voice of caution and adopt a false persona, an alias. Recognition would ruin everything.

Imagine her, plain and simple country girl Tegan Ellis, using an alias, just like a Pinkerton detective. Positively thrilling!

But wait. Was guarding her anonymity strictly necessary? Did participants of an orgy formally introduce themselves?

Hmm.

Having never attended an orgy before, she would have no idea as to the etiquette. Though a round of bowing and curtsying did seem rather unlikely.

At any rate, the key to success was having a strategy in place. To that end, should the industrialist ask over her name, she must be prepared in advance with a fraudulent identity. So, what was a good alias to use?

Miss Smith?

She shook her head. That assumed name would never do. Too obvious.

Something bold and exotic, then?

By Jove, she had it. Miss Vitisvinifera! The word for grape in Latin. Apropos, since she would be peeling bunches of them this evening. Though the name was rather a mouthful.

Regardless of what she called herself, she must make herself over into someone else, someone incredibly seductive. And interesting. A sophisticated femme fatale capable of turning male heads in a crowded room, someone who unashamedly oozed hedonism. Someone persuasive and alluring. Someone who could bring Sean Griffith to his knees.

Now, if only her own knees would stop trembling.

What if someone found her out? Discovered her infiltration of the manor? Knew she was here at Griffith House under false pretenses? What if, what if, whatif, whatifwhatif...?

Oh, my how her head buzzed. Like a hive of bees swarmed between her ears. She should just turn right around and leave...

Or lift her skirts and give her privates one hundred good strokes right here.

After chortling and spitting and snorting through her nose, Tegan settled down. Her shoulders squared, she clamped down on her spate of nerves.

Choosing personal safety over commitment to her cause would not only make her a craven coward, but unworthy of calling a dedicated and selfless man like Brynn Ellis her father.

Noble sentiment. Unfortunately, no amount of words, regardless of how fine and lofty, would have pushed her to continue. What kept her going was the knowledge that this might be her only shot at adventure, of doing something wild and, yes, wicked. Something like she read about in her beloved romance novels, an exciting exploit that plucky heroines routinely undertook between the pages of a book.

At the top of these very stairs was a dining room filled with gentlemen waiting to have their grapes peeled.

And what else?

She had it on good authority that orgies involved stolen kisses.

In the name of struggling miners and their families, she would allow one or two kisses. On the cheek. Not on the mouth. And only because she believed so deeply in the cause.

Liar.

All right, all right. At times, she wished her conscience would just hush!

The truth was, she was curious too. About kissing. And all the rest. Particularly, what went on between gentlemen and ladies in those passages that authors never explained, those missing chapters after the boudoir door closed.

Compelled to find out what exactly romance characters did on those blank pages, Tegan tiptoed down the hall and, craning her neck, peeked inside the open door.

Food. All sorts of food, some steaming, some iced, heaped on the banquet table. Most prominent of which was a pig with an apple stuffed in its mouth.

Then she saw him, a man in stark black evening attire. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out onto the falling rain. Immediately, he eclipsed the feast--no small feat, considering her protesting belly.

Other than resembling a hideous ogre from a Grimm’s fairy tale, she had absolutely no preconceptions of what Sean Griffith would look like. Unlike previous Central Coal Mine owners, the wealthy industrialist had made no tintype of himself available in the company office. But she knew it must be him, for who else would he be? Apart from his solitary person, the dining room was quite empty.

Gossip said Mr. Griffith rarely left the walled grounds of his estate. Business agents, lawyers, and managers brought their concerns to him here. Merchants and others, loose women included as well. Though, she supposed fleshmongers handled the pandering end of things at a distance.

The rumors of Mr. Griffith’s reclusive nature gave her cause for hope. For if he truly did shun the public eye, her extortion scheme might well succeed. A man who prized privacy would do anything to avoid scandal reaching newsprint.

Although, what scandal?

As far as she could see, there was no ammunition for blackmail here. Plump purple grapes bunched together in a glass fruit bowl in the center of the food-laden table, but no one, except Sean Griffith, waited to have them peeled.

The evidence in her reticule had better convince him to do the right thing, for this was an all round disappointing orgy, if you asked her. She had expected more than one man’s silent reflection on windblown rain. Had the inclement weather kept everyone else away?

Gathering her courage, she called across the room, "Mr. Griffith, I presume?"

The callous mine owner left his solitary position at the wet panes and came toward her. He walked deliberately, as if he owned the world. And indeed, he did. Her world.

Fear catching up with her, she averted her face and cold-shouldered him.

The air stirred, but only mildly, as he came to a quiet stop beside her. "Do you like the mural?"

She frowned. Mural? What mural?

Afraid as she had never been afraid before, nothing of her immediate surroundings registered. Her mind a complete and utter void, her eyes glazed over. A whole bevy of naked people could have cavorted before her nose and she would not have been conscious of them.

"The wall painting," he prompted. "Does it meet with your approval?"

Did he think her an uneducated idiot who had no comprehension of the meaning of simple words, like "mural"?

She would show him!

She blinked, blinked again, focused her eyes on the wall.

Good Lord! In a manner of speaking, a whole bevy of naked people were cavorting before her nose. On the wall.

She swallowed her chagrin. "Yes, the mural does meet with my approval." She swept her hand, lecture-style, across the painting before her. “As the name implies, the trompe l’oeil technique certainly does ‘trick the eye’ into believing the scene is real. Fascinating."

"I agree. Fascinating..."

A small pause broke the flow of his conversation. A lull, while he pondered something. She would have thought a robber baron given more to action than to deep contemplation, but what did a mining woman like her know of such things?

"A clever subject matter," he finally offered.

He was staring. At her. She could tell. People usually looked right through her, as if she had no more substance than air. No one ever really saw her. Particularly not men.

His close observation heated her cheeks.

It was the gown. Had to be. Sewing was her only talent, and her retooled gown had succeeded in drawing his attention.

To disguise her flustered blush, she waved a hand across the painted wall again. This time, a wide arc that encompassed the veritable hodgepodge of naked bodies. “There is little doubt but that this mural is an ode to the first Greek Olympic Games."

"Think so?"

"I categorically know so. There is no exception here. In ancient days, you see, competitors celebrated their physiques by performing athletic feats in the nude. Note the entangled naked limbs as the opponents struggle for dominance in the wrestling match."

He coughed. Or cleared his throat. Or did something, made some noise. "I suppose wrestling is one way of looking at the activity."

"I assure you, sir, it is the only way." She tilted her head to gain a better perspective of a muscular male competitor locking a female in a back-to-front hold. When she noted that yet another male wrestler was mounting the shapely buttocks of a second female competitor, she clucked her tongue. "This depiction is flawed!"

"How so?"

"The first Olympic tournaments were strictly male. Fie on the artist for playing fast and loose with historical accuracy."

"Everyone makes mistakes."

"Carelessness makes for a sloppy excuse. And ignorance as a defense is a faulty argument. One should always research to get the facts straight " She pointed to one particularly energetic couple. "My, but that is a strenuous, almost frantic..er..maneuver. That male and female opponents are certainly..er..grappling with one another as they vie for supremacy." She jabbed a finger at an interloper. "And see there, another male appears to be going for a frontal attack on the same female. Two on one seems a tad unfair. And yet the woman is smiling broadly."

Mr. Griffith uttered a gruff sound. Neither a cough nor a throat clearing, the noise fell somewhere in between and was difficult to interpret without looking at his face, something she had yet to bring herself to do.

"Hmm." She stared some more at the wall. "I wonder who comes out on top in the end?"

"Top. Bottom. What matters the position as long as all participants come. In the end. Or in other delightful places."

Obviously, Mr. Griffith had little understanding of either art or history. Most likely, he had no exposure to sporting events either. Too busy making money, she supposed.

But to be charitable, Tegan let his ignorance pass. "I adore art. Although I have seen few paintings firsthand. My knowledge is derived primarily from illustrated books, which I study for hours, wondering over texture and strokes and so forth.”

"In that case... Would you share your educated opinion of a piece I recently acquired and added to my private art collection?"

She knew what he was up to. He meant to stroke her vanity with a heavy-handed compliment. And once her head was turned, he meant to seduce her. Really, did he think her a naive fool?

She was countrified, not stupid. Romance novels contained countless accounts of gentlemen taking ladies to view their "private" art collections, and with heinous results. Not that she knew what those results were. Those plot points were among the missing passages that authors never bothered to explain.

"Where is this recently acquired piece?" With some reluctance, she turned to him.

And immediately wished she had not. Immediately wished he had stayed across the room, where he had been easier to hate.

Sean Griffith was no bloated caricature of an evil Gilded Age robber baron, no oiled mustached rogue driven by an unquenchable thirst for power. Time and circumstance had touched this captain of industry and left behind their indelible print. Silver threaded his thick black hair. Deep lines fanned out from the corners of his brown eyes. Even deeper creases furrowed his forehead and bracketed his mouth. The nose was suitably hawkish, all right—from a broken bone that had never been set. Angular, clean-shaven cheeks, firm jaw, flat ears that hugged his well-shaped skull.

He had a muscular build that no expensively tailored evening attire could hide. The coat, waistcoat, and trousers screamed greenbacks, but the thickly roped shoulders and sinewy arms were gifts of hard manual labor.

An overblown fictionalized antagonist did not stand before her, a man did. A hardened man to be sure, but hardly a demonic villain.

Oh dear. This..this..humanity was what came of putting a face to a name.

She hoped the same would hold true for the miners she had come here to represent. She hoped putting a face to their names would force their humanity down Sean Griffith’s throat. She hoped he choked on it. If not, if not...

Oh God, suddenly the robber baron doing the right thing of his own volition, after being shown the evidence inside her reticule, seemed hopelessly naive.

Though Sean Griffith was no demonic villain, no Grimm’s fairy-tale monster, he was no gentleman either. No one and nothing forced anything down this man’s throat. He was a slum tough if ever she saw one.

She hung her head. What was the use of showing him her documents?

He’d had an entire year. If he intended to own up to his mining responsibilities, he would have done so already. He would have found out all on his own what needed to be done, and he would have made the necessary changes. No stern talk from her would change his negligent ways.

No. What she needed was leverage, a positional advantage that would force him into doing the right thing. What she needed was blackmail. Where oh where was an orgy when she needed one?

Woebegone as can be, she examined the toes of her secondhand shoes. What was she to do now?

"The work is hanging in the alcove."

At his directive, she raised her chin. "Oh, yes. The painting. I had quite forgotten."

He crooked his arm. "If you would come with me, please?"

Her first official male escort, and a gallant one at that. Why did the gallantry have to originate from him, of all people?

She had attended her share of community socials, where stammering lads held up one wall while tongue-tied girls hugged the opposite. But she had never danced at any of those chaperoned functions, and no boy had ever presented her with his arm.

No boy did now, either. And certainly no gentleman. A tough man of questionable repute presented his elbow to her.

Rude to ignore the overture. Despite his unseemly background, she must observe propriety.

With a bob of her head and a grim flash of teeth, she accepted his escort. Arms linked, a tad stiffly on her side, they went to view his new acquisition.

Once in the alcove, Tegan gawked, but only a bit, certainly not in an offensive or untoward fashion, at the stained-glass window soaring majestically overhead.