“Exactly.”

“Perhaps I am a long-lost relative. I find I am not enjoying this sojourn at Lord Strange’s house. Last night Lord Roke said such an astounding thing to me about brandied apricots.”

“What was it?” Harriet asked.

“It was a suggestion of a physical nature,” Isidore said. “I retreated into the ladies’ salon and found myself in conversation with a lady wearing a great quantity of cosmetics. And a swath of gold hair that towered above her shoulders.”

“Everyone’s hair towers,” Harriet said moodily. She was not looking forward to returning to the duchy and dressing her hair once more. “Look at Jemma. She once told me that she had fifteen bows affixed to her hair.”

“Not like this. The lady in question could have had an entire rat’s nest in there and no one would have known.”

“A distasteful thought.”

“Do you know what I find odd? Strange doesn’t even like most of his own guests, let alone know their names.”

“How can you tell?”

“He and I were circling the room and some of his own guests were forced to introduce themselves. I thought that was appallingly rude.”

“On Strange’s part?”

“If he bothers to invite people, shouldn’t he take the time to greet them when they arrive?”

“I suppose so.”

“A juggling troupe arrived yesterday. I gather they are attached in some fashion to a theater he owns in London. This troupe is a group of boisterous lads who have no place in a formal sitting room. They weren’t even properly dressed. And yet he was trying to pretend they belonged there.”

“What did they think of the sitting room?”

“They were delighted by the ale,” Isidore said. “And they complimented him on the bubble-and-squeak served at dinner. I was not offered that dish, to the best of my knowledge.”

“I think it’s rather admirable,” Harriet said.

“Why?” Isidore asked baldly.

“Because he doesn’t decide who his guests should be simply on what kind of family they come from or what position they hold in society.”

“Then why not open a hotel? I myself have never stayed in a hotel, due to my mother-in-law’s fixed conviction that ladies don’t belong in paying establishments. But I was forcefully reminded of a hotel last night. Or perhaps a brothel, to call a spade a spade. I saw a great deal of glee resulting from Strange’s free food, together with a certain thirsty appreciation of the Graces.”

“When would you like to leave?” Harriet asked, knowing precisely where this conversation was heading.

“Do you think tomorrow morning would show an unbecoming eagerness? Everyone at breakfast was cheerfully comparing rat bite stories they knew. I don’t want to acquire such intimate knowledge of the animal kingdom.”

“Could we wait another day?” Harriet asked. “I have engaged to deliver notes to Strange on the behalf of Nell, and I should do the last couplet tomorrow.”

“I am so staid compared to you. You’re actually engaged in wooing Strange, albeit for another woman. It sounds Shakespearean.”

“Perhaps I should inform Nell that Strange has a mistress.”

“Do you think that she would care?” There was a snap in Isidore’s voice.

“Perhaps not,” Harriet admitted.

“I do not care for the slip-shod manner in which these people conduct their social affairs.”

“It’s not so different from Jemma,” Harriet said defensively. “At least, from what we heard of Jemma’s affaires when she was living in Paris.”

“There’s a world of difference. Yes, Jemma had a liaison or two. But she didn’t have this careless, pleasure-for-the-sake-of-it attitude. You know, Harriet, I never think much about my husband, Cosway. Why would I? I don’t know the man. But now I realize that if he is like Strange I simply won’t be able to countenance it.”

“Like Strange?” Harriet’s heart thumped. To have a husband like Strange…with that wild beauty of his, with the way he smiled, with the lean muscles, the laughter in his eyes, the pure brilliance…

“Exactly. Never knowing whose bed he might be in. I suppose Strange will take up Nell on her offer. I gather it is for a night’s pleasure and not marriage.” Her tone was scathing.

“Yes,” Harriet said. “Though she has ambitions to marry him.”

“He’ll never marry her. No man would marry a woman who allowed him to bed her.”

“You can’t say that for certain,” Harriet protested. “I know of many ladies whose first child came with suspicious haste.”

“After the marriage had been arranged.”

“Not in all cases,” Harriet said.

“Well,” Isidore said, “as I said, I’m becoming hidebound. I’m turning into one of those fierce old duchesses who thinks everyone is immoral.” She hunched her shoulders. “I simply don’t enjoy this kind of gathering. I was approached last night—”

“About the brandied apricots?”

“It was the jugglers. They became very drunk at some point. I was sitting at the side of the room with one of the Graces discussing French letters—in which I have no interest, Harriet, I assure you—and a couple of them came over, looked at us and said, ‘I am very drunk, lay me down and roll me to a whore.’ My companion thought this was remarkably funny. She giggled and giggled.”

“Oh, Isidore, I’m sorry.”

“Then they started comparing us. One of them said I looked like a virgin, and the Grace giggled at that. Then the other laughed and told me to lie down and he would feese me. Do you know what that means, Harriet?”

“No.”

“He said that he would lie with me tonight, and his friend could have me tomorrow. And do you know, I think the Grace was a little peeved? She wanted those drunken fools to desire her.”

“Oh, Isidore,” Harriet said. “That’s awful! How did you get away?”

“The drunker one grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. I was so stupid, I couldn’t think of anything to say or do.”

Harriet wound an arm around Isidore’s shoulders.

“Luckily he fell down. He just lay there.”

“Where was Strange?”

Isidore shrugged. “Mr. Povy appeared and they swore at him and said he was full of fleas. Povy didn’t seem too bothered by this, and he got two footmen to drag them away.”

“All in a day’s work,” Harriet said dismally.

“I want to go home,” Isidore stated.

Harriet gave her a hug. “We’ll go tomorrow morning. I’ll give Strange the rest of the poem in one fell swoop. You ask Lucille to pack our things, and we’ll be off.”

“I’m sorry. I know you’re enjoying being a man.”

“It couldn’t last forever.”

It was like everything else in life. Nothing lasted forever.

Chapter Twenty-three

Of Ladies, Amazons, Whoremongers, and Prickles

H arriet copied out the last lines of Nell’s poem for Strange and perfumed the stationery before taking her bath. She sat in the hot water for a long while, thinking over the last week.