Eventually, Mistress Dennison rose to her feet. "Come, ladies, let us withdraw. Our friends will be arriving soon. Lilly, dear, you should touch up your rouge. Mary, there's a tiny smudge of sauce on your sleeve. Go to your maid and have it sponged off. There's nothing more off-putting to a gentleman than a slovenly appearance."

Involuntarily, Juliana's hands went to her hair, escaping from its pins as she'd known it would.

"Did Bella not tell you we wished you to leave your hair loose?" inquired Richard, still seated at the table as the ladies rose around him. He poured port into his glass and glanced up at Juliana.

"Yes, but I prefer it like this," she responded evenly. There was an almost imperceptible indrawing of breath in the room.

"You must learn to subdue your own preferences in such matters to those of the gentlemen, my dear," Elizabeth said gently. "It was a most specific request that you leave it loose this evening."

"No one's preferences have more weight than my own, madam," Juliana replied, her throat closing as her heart thundered in her ears. She would not submit to them without a fight.

To her astonishment Elizabeth merely smiled. "I dareswear that that will change quite soon. Come."

Juliana followed them out of the dining room and into the long salon she'd peeped into that first morning. It was candlelit with tall wax tapers, although the evening sun still shone through the windows. There were flowers on every surface, the scent of lavender and beeswax in the air. A long sideboard carried decanters, bottles, and glasses; there was both tea and coffee on the low table before the sofa, where Mistress Dennison immediately took her seat. The girls ranged themselves around her, took teacups, and sat down. An air of expectancy hung in the room.

Juliana refused tea and walked over to a window overlooking the street. Behind her the murmur of voices, the soft chuckles, filled the air. She heard Lilly and Mary return and Mistress Dennison approve of their adjustments. Someone began to play the harpsichord.

Along the street strolled two gentlemen coming toward the house. They swung their canes as they talked, and their sword hilts showed beneath their full-skirted velvet coats. When they reached the house, they turned up the steps. The front door knocker sounded. A whisper of tension rustled around the room. The girl on the harpsichord continued to play, the others shifted on their chairs, rearranged their skirts, opened fans, glanced casually toward the door as they waited to see who their first guests would be.

"Lord Bridgeworth and Sir Ambrose Belton," Mr. Garston announced.

Mistress Dennison rose and curtsied; the other women followed suit, except for Juliana, who drew back against the embroidered damask curtains. Deborah and a pale, fair girl she remembered as Rosamund fluttered toward the two gentlemen. Juliana recalled that Bella had said Lord Bridgeworth was Deborah's particular gentleman. Presumably Sir Ambrose and Rosamund made a similar pair.

The door knocker sounded again and a party of six gentlemen were announced. Juliana drew even farther back into the shadows, watching the scene as she nervously pushed loosening ringlets back into their pins. One of the new arrivals caught sight of her and bent to say something to Mistress Dennison. Juliana distinctly heard "His Grace of Redmayne" in amid Elizabeth's reply. Then Elizabeth turned with a smile and beckoned.

"Juliana, Viscount Amberstock wishes to be acquainted with you."

It seemed she had little choice. Juliana moved reluctantly from the semiconcealment of the curtains and crossed the room, taking tiny steps, feeling as insecure on the high heels as a baby who was just learning to walk.

"Redmayne's a lucky dog," the viscount boomed, taking her hand and raising it to his lips as he bowed with a lavish flourish. Juliana curtsied in silence, averting her eyes. "Good God, ma'am, is the wench too shy to speak?" the viscount exclaimed to his hostess.

"Far from it," Elizabeth replied calmly. "Juliana has a very ready tongue when it suits her."

"But it belongs to Redmayne, what?" The viscount laughed merrily at this risque sally. "Ah, well, the rest of us must pine." He dropped Juliana's hand. She curtsied demurely and returned to her place by the window.

"You will annoy Mistress Dennison if you remain apart in this way." Emma spoke softly as she drifted casually up to Juliana in a mist of pink spider gauze.

"I find that a matter of indifference."

"You won't if they become really angered with you," Emma said, frowning. "They look after us very well, but they expect cooperation. It's hardly unreasonable."

Juliana met Emma's frowning regard and read both curiosity and a desire to be helpful in her dark-brown eyes. "But I am here against my will," she explained. "I see no reason why I should cooperate. I wish simply to be allowed to leave."

"But, my dear, you don't know what you're saying!" Emma protested. "There are bawds and whoremasters out there who will take every farthing you earn in exchange for the right to ply your trade in a shack in the Piazza. They charge five shillings for a used gown and shawl, and they'll squeeze the last drop of blood from your veins for the wine and spirits that you must have for the customers. If you refuse, or can't pay, then they'll throw you into the Fleet or the Marshalsea and you'll never be released."

Juliana stared at her, both horrified and fascinated. "But I have no intention of becoming a whore," she said at last. "Not here, nor anywhere."

Emma's frown deepened. "But what else is there for any of us?" She gestured around the room. "We live in the lap of luxury. Our clients are noblemen, discriminating, considerate… for the most part," she added. "And if you play your cards right, you could find a keeper who'll treat you well and provide for your future."

"But I'm not here because I wish to be," Juliana tried again.

Emma shrugged. "Are any of us, dear? But we count our blessings. You should do the same, or you'll find yourself lying under the bushes in St. James's Park every night. Believe me, I know… Oh, here's Lord Farquar." With a little trill of delight-that may or may not have been feigned Emma hastened across the room toward an elderly man in a snuff-sprinkled scarlet coat.

Five minutes later Garston announced the Duke of Redmayne. Juliana's stomach dropped to her feet. She turned away from the room and stared out into the gathering dusk on Russell Street.

Tarquin stood in the doorway for a minute and took a leisurely pinch of snuff. His eyes roamed the room, rested on the averted figure in green by the window. Her hair blazed in a ray of the sinking sun. He couldn't see her face, but there was a rigidity to the sloping white shoulders. As he watched, a ringlet sprang loose from its pins and cascaded down the slender column of her neck. She remained immobile.

He strolled across the room to his hostess. "Elizabeth, charming as always." He bowed over her hand. "And the ladies… a garden of delights." He raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the attendant damsels, who curtsied as his gaze swept over them.

Elizabeth glanced pointedly over her shoulder to Juliana before raising an expressively questioning eyebrow. His Grace shook his head and sat down beside her on the sofa. "Leave her for the moment."

"She is as obstinate as ever, Your Grace," Elizabeth said in a low voice, passing him a cup of tea.

"But I see that you persuaded her to dress and come downstairs."

"With difficulty."

"Mmm." The duke sipped his tea. "You were obliged to coerce her?"

"To point out the realities of her situation, rather."

The duke nodded. "Well, I'm glad she's not stupid enough to ignore those realities."

"Oh, I don't believe Miss Juliana is in the least stupid." Mistress Dennison declared. "She has a tongue like a razor."