“He must not be certain who wrote the note. Please, Harry, can you do something?”

“I am no bawd—” she cleared her throat “—that is, I am certainly not a brothel-keeper, Nell. I can’t arrange your liaisons.”

“You already have,” Nell said, her eyes sparkling with deep excitement. “And I won’t charge Strange a thing. I never do that.”

Nell had a disconcerting lack of subtlety.

“Can you at least introduce me as the author of the poem?” Nell breathed in her ear.

Harriet turned toward Jem, at the same moment that his hand came down on her leg. She froze. Of course, Nell couldn’t see. No one could. He had hooked the tablecloth over his arm.

His fingers…those fingers…her skin was instantly on fire. He was smiling at Isidore as he slid his fingers up, toward the crotch of her breeches.

“Harry!” Nell hissed.

Harriet cleared her throat. Jem finished his sentence and turned toward her. “My dear Mr. Cope,” he said. “I truly apologize for not greeting you.”

Harriet inclined her head. “It’s a pleasure to have you join us, Lord Strange.”

“I always chase pleasure whenever I can,” he said carelessly. “Now tell me, Mr. Cope, what is your given name?”

Harriet narrowed her eyes.

“Your first name?” he prompted. “Only the most hidebound of friends address each other in formalities.”

“I wanted to introduce you to the author of that poetry that has so intrigued and delighted you,” she said, ignoring his question.

“Ah, Miss Gale. What a surprise this is.”

“Nell,” she said, dimpling at him. “I certainly hope it was not an unpleasant surprise.”

“Not in the least,” he said, giving her one of his most charming smiles. “I don’t suppose that you know Mr. Cope’s given name, do you? He’s far too stuffy to share it with all us.”

Nell had a little frown that indicated she wasn’t very interested in his question. “It’s Harry,” she said.

“Harry! Oh no, no, no,” Jem said.

“Why not?” Harriet asked with an edge of unfriendliness. “It’s a perfectly good name.”

“It has no moral tone,” Jem announced. “None at all. You couldn’t be a judge with that name. Nor a bishop either. It would even be difficult for a parish priest. Now if you called yourself Harold, which likely is your true name, it would all be different.”

He paused but Harriet wasn’t going to encourage his silliness and kept silent. Nell leaned forward so that her bodice gaped open and said, “How would it be different, Lord Strange?”

“Please,” he said, “you must call me Jem.”

Harriet thought uncharitably that Nell appeared on the edge of a joyful apoplexy.

“Now if young Harry here would adopt his true name, Harold, he would quickly find a high moral tone was issuing from his mouth on all subjects. He could publish his remarks in Gentleman’s Magazine, for example. They tell the most awful lies about women.”

“Such as?” Harriet asked.

“Apparently some dissolute women have begun shaking hands,” Jem said.

“Goodness,” Nell said. “I’ve been guilty of that myself.”

“We don’t approve, do we, Harold?” Jem asked.

“My name is Harry, not Harold!” Harriet snapped. “And I think Miss Nell should shake hands with whomever she pleases.”

“One never knows where those hands might have been,” Jem said, inching his fingers an inch higher.

She should stop him. She should, except the most delicious languor was creeping over her.

Earlier, after a bath, she had decided the whole episode that afternoon was like some sort of lovely dream, as unrepeatable as it was unacceptable.

But now her body was sending her signals that it would be happy to repeat every moment of it.

“I shan’t ever shake hands again,” Nell said. “What else do they say in that magazine, Jem?”

She breathed his name as if they were already in bed together. It rolled off her tongue with visions of bridal finery and wedding nights, Harriet thought sourly.

“The author is practically virulent on the subject of women,” Jem said. “Imagine. He says that women are carrying pistols.”

“Mrs. Grandison put one in her knotting bag and it went off and shot a great hole in her drawing room carpet,” Nell said. “So that is true as well.”

“This one must be an exaggeration. The author actually claims that some women have given up the sidesaddle for riding astride and—who could believe this?—are wearing breeches.”

“Breeches look dreadfully uncomfortable,” Nell said. “I think that claim is rather unlikely, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry—or Harriet—couldn’t think all that well, as Jem’s thumb had taken up a rhythm that was making her feel rather faint. “I agree,” she managed.

“But breeches are so convenient,” Jem coo’d. He was obviously enjoying himself hugely. “A woman’s costume is impossible, what with her panniers, her petticoats, her stays…”

Nell was giggling madly again. “How well you know us!” she shrilled.

Jem leaned across Harry toward Nell, which allowed him to rub even harder. Harriet gasped and jumped in her seat.

“Don’t allow me to bother you, Cope,” Jem said. “I just want to make a point to Nell. Why do you suppose that women wear all that clothing?”

“To be attractive,” Nell said promptly. She cast a quick look down at her gown in a manner that suggested she felt that she looked very attractive indeed.

“But think how attractive they’d be if they merely wore breeches. Just think how a man’s eyes would be able to feast on their limbs, on the curve of their—I’m not shocking you, am I, Nell?”

Hardly. Nell’s eyes were fixed on him the way a baby chick looks at its mother. It was Harriet who could feel herself turning pinker and pinker.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she said, scrambling backward and standing up. Jem’s hand fell away. Her knees felt a bit weak.

“Are you done eating?” Jem asked.

“Absolutely,” she said. “Absolutely finished.” She was babbling, and tried to pull herself together. “What I mean to say is that I shall accompany the Duchess of Cosway back to London tomorrow, so I should probably supervise the packing of my clothing.”

Jem looked at her quickly, and she realized she’d forgotten to tell him.

Nell scrambled into the chair that she had vacated. “Oh dear Harry,” she cooed, smiling at Harriet. “I wish you a wonderful trip.”

“Yes, indeed,” Jem said, his eyes rather unfriendly.

“I’m sure we’ll see you here again,” Nell said, taking on the role of the mistress of the manor.

“Indeed,” Jem said, and he turned back to Nell with a smile.

Chapter Twenty-five

The Intoxicating Air of Fonthill

H arriet walked up the stairs thinking about three people she had to say farewell to: Eugenia, Villiers, and Jem. It was astonishing how differently she felt about Villiers than a mere month ago, when she hated him with a vengeance. Last year she had talked Jemma into shaming him at chess; she had spent hours wishing he would die of a loathsome disease. She was intent on revenge.