She threw the shift over her head and stepped into the gown, hooking it up, fastening a muslin fichu discreetly at the neck. She thrust her bare feet into a pair of leather slippers, also provided by Mistress Dennison; splashed water from the ewer onto her face; brushed her hair, pinning it roughly in a knot on top of her head; and was out of the door and running down the wide staircase to the hall within ten minutes of waking.

The front door was open to the street, and a maid was on her hands and knees polishing the parquet. Juliana had seen little of the house the previous day. After changing her clothes she'd spent the rest of the time with Mistress Dennison in her private parlor. She'd dined there alone and retired early, too overwhelmed by the strangeness and excitements of the day following the fatigue of the journey to examine her position or her surroundings too closely.

Now, however, she was refreshed and clear-headed, and she looked around her with interest. Double doors stood open to the right of the hall, revealing a long, elegant salon. From what she could see, the furniture, apart from some deep, inviting sofas and plump ottomans, was all dainty gilt and elaborately carved wood, the carpet richly embroidered, the draperies and upholstery emerald-green velvet. The scent of tobacco and wine lingered in the air, fighting with the fragrance of fresh roses and potpourri from the bowls scattered on every surface.

Juliana could see a footman and a maid polishing the furniture in the salon, but apart from this activity the house seemed to lie under a curious hush. It was like a stage set, she thought. All ready and waiting for the players. The atmosphere wasn't like a private house at all, more like a hotel.

With a slightly puzzled frown she approached the maid polishing the floor. But before she could reach her. a voice said softly but with great authority, "And where d'ye think y'are off to, missie?"

She spun round, startled, not having heard footsteps behind her. A burly man in scarlet livery with a powdered wig, impressive gold braid and hogging on his coat, and a heavy gold watch chain slung across his broad chest surveyed her, hands on his hips.

"I was about to go for a walk," Juliana said, unconsciously tipping her chin, her expression challenging. "If it's any business of yours."

A strange little sound came from the maid still busily polishing on her hands and knees a few feet away. Juliana glanced quickly at her, but the girl's head was down, and she seemed to be putting even more effort into her work. Juliana looked back at the liveried butler. or so she assumed him to be.

He was surveying her with an air of incredulity. "It seems ye've a lot to learn about this ere establishment, missie," he declared. "And lesson number one: My name is Garston. Mr. Garston, to you, or just plain sir. And everything you do is my business."

Her eyes threw green fire at him. "My good man, the only person who's entitled to question my movements in this house is Mistress Dennison. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going for a walk." She tried to step past him toward the door, but he moved his considerable bulk to block her way.

"Doors is closed, missie." He sounded amused rather than annoyed by her defiance.

"They are not!" she stated. "The door is wide-open to the street."

"Doors is closed to the ladies of the 'ouse, missie, until I says so," he said stolidly, folding his arms and regarding her with an amused smile.

What was this? Juliana stared up at him, for the moment nonplussed. As she tried to order her thoughts, a burst of laughter came from the open front door as two women entered the hall, followed by a footman. They were in evening dress, dominoes over their wide-hooped gowns, black loo masks over their eyes.

"Lud, but that was a night and a half," one of them pronounced, plying her fan vigorously. "Such a pair of swordsmen, I do declare, Lilly!"

The other woman went into a renewed peal of laughter and unfastened her mask. "That Lord Bingley, I dareswear, would have been all cut and thrust for another hour if I hadn't near swooned with exhaustion… Oh, Mr. Garston, would you be so good as to send a salt bath to my room? I'm in sore need."

"Immediately, Miss Lilly." He bowed. "I gather you and Miss Emma 'ad a good night. Mr. and Mistress Dennison will be right 'appy to 'ear it."

"La, good enough, Mr. Garston." Miss Emma yawned. "But a tankard of milk punch won't come amiss."

"I'll order it straightway, miss. You go along up and leave it to me." Mr. Garston sounded positively avuncular now as he beamed at the two yawning young women.

Juliana was staring with unabashed curiosity. They were both very pretty, richly gowned, elaborately coiffed, but they were so thickly painted and powdered, it was hard to tell their ages. They were certainly young, but how young she couldn't decide.

"Lud, and who have we here?" Miss Lilly said, catching sight of Juliana behind the stolid figure of Mr. Garston. She regarded her with interest, taking in the simple gown and the roughly pinned hair. "A new servant?"

"I don't believe so, miss," Garston said with a meaningful nod. "But Mistress Dennison 'asn't made clear to me quite what 'er plans are fer the young lady."

"Oh?" Miss Emma examined Juliana with a raised eyebrow. Then she shrugged. "Well, I daresay we'll find out soon enough. Come, Lilly, I'm dead on my feet."

The two wafted up the stairs, chattering like magpies, leaving Juliana uneasy, annoyed, and exceedingly puzzled.

"Now, then, missie, you cut along to yer chamber," Mr. Garston said. "Ring the bell, there, and the maid'll come to ye. Anythin' ye wants, she can provide I daresay Mistress Dennison will be seein' you when she rises "

"And what time's that?" Juliana debated whether she could duck past him and reach the door before he could catch her.

"Noontime," he said. "That's when she ' is visitors in 'er chamber, while she's dressing. But she'll not be ready fer ye much 'afore dinner." As if guessing her thoughts, he turned to the open door and banged it closed.

Juliana stood frowning. It seemed she was a prisoner. And what kind of woman was it who had. visitors in her bedchamber while she was dressing for the day?

There didn't seem much she could do about the situation at present, so, thoughtfully, she returned upstairs to the peace of her own chamber to consider the situation. She couldn't be kept there against her will indefinitely, and Mistress Dennison had so far given no indication of wishing to do so.

The maid who answered the bell seemed tongue-tied, capable of little more than a curtsy and a murmured "Yes, miss" to all conversational sallies. She either couldn't or wouldn't answer direct questions about Mistress Dennison's establishment, and when she left, Juliana found her appetite for her breakfast tray had diminished considerably under her growing unease.

When a few minutes later she heard the key turn in the lock outside, she started from her chair, raced across the room to try the door, and found it locked. For ten minutes she banged on the door and called at the top of her voice. But she could hear nothing in the passage outside.

She ran to the window and gazed at the street three floors down. There were no handholds in the brickwork, no convenient wisteria or creepers. The windows on the floor below had small wrought-iron balconies, but Juliana couldn't imagine dropping safely onto one of them from the narrow sill outside her own chamber. She contemplated calling to the passersby in the street, but what could she say? That she was a prisoner? Who would take any notice? They'd assume she was an errant servant, locked in her garret for some peccadillo. No one would involve themselves in the domestic affairs of another householder.

Juliana flopped onto the chaise longue, nibbling at a fingernail, her brows drawn together in a fierce frown. It was her own fault for trusting a kind-seeming face. Just another piece of clumsiness, really. Tripping over her feet and stumbling headlong into something nasty. But there was nothing she could do until someone chose to explain matters to her and she fully understood the pickle she was in.