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habits, don't you know, that make life bearable," she'd murmured, nipping the card through her long fingers. Her voice sounded offhanded enough, she thought, if a bit distracted.
    "Make life bearable, that's a good one, Phizz. Oh, yes, he's most trustworthy, entirely discreet. Well, he wouldn't have any custom if he couldn't keep a secret, would he?"
    Still, it had taken her some months to summon the courage to visit the address listed on the card. The venue proved unexceptional; most of the building's occupants seemed to be solicitors. And Talbot did seem trustworthy, if unpleasant. He'd reacted to Phoebe's terse disclosure of her sex with only the faintest of nods, letting heavy lids fall over colorless, reptilian eyes, and then quoting her a price that she suspected was approximately double what he'd charge a "normal" client.
    She'd been terribly nervous as the night of Billy's first visit approached. Receiving him in her bedchamber, she adopted a coldness of demeanor that should have intimidated him, but to which he responded with exquisite sweetness and docility. Still costumed as Marston, she'd told him to undress for her. She'd sat in her big armchair, feet resting on the ottoman, directing commands at him: "Slowly, slowly, that's better. Now bend, turn, a little more to the right, boy. Stop now, and open your legs. Ah, yes, very nice indeed."
    She'd felt encouraged that he seemed to enjoy performing for her. Her imperious tone of voice might perhaps have masked her nervousness, but there was no hiding the desire she felt, nor the evident pleasure he took in it.
    Finally she'd risen from her chair and instructed him to undress her.
    For a moment she'd feared that she might disappoint him. But, after a gasp of astonishment, he grinned so broadly and embraced her so enthusiastically that she let go her fears and simply let things take their own delightful course.
    Billy wasn't in his line of work by choice or preference. Mr. Talbot had a standing arrangement with the constabulary to inform him when they'd picked up a likely candidate. And so a pretty young pickpocket or street tough might avoid prison if he were willing to be of regular service to wealthy gentlemen of a certain persuasion.
    It wasn't a bad life, Billy had told Phoebe after they'd gotten to know one another better. It wasn't his first choice, of course, but there were worse things than having it off with gentlemen. What rankled was that he and the other boys did all the work while Talbot pocketed the money.
    "But when I saw that you
wasn't
no gentleman," Billy had added, "well then, miss, I thought I'd died and 'ad gone directly to heaven."
    He did everything Phoebe might want—how extraordinary, she'd thought at first, to have this beautiful young creature completely at her service: hands and mouth and the eager, pulsing member that grew so magically at her touch.
    He seemed to have an instinct for pleasing. Which was fortunate, for sad to say, now that she was free to take what she wanted from a man, she'd quickly discovered that she didn't exactly know what that was.
Her
enjoyment, after all, had been the furthest thing from Henry's mind. In fact, the few times that he'd chanced to satisfy her he'd seemed oddly fearful of her response, as though erotic pleasure were somehow spoiled by sharing it.
    It wasn't as though he hadn't spent time in her bed, especially during the first year of their marriage. He'd been an energetic, dutiful husband, she supposed, acquitting himself quickly, successfully, and with reasonable frequency. In return, meanwhile, she'd become quite expert in giving him what he wanted. Obscurely troubled by her moments of enjoyment, what he'd truly demanded from her was gratitude. She'd soon enough learned to feign this; a long sigh and a bit of rolling her eyes did the trick nicely.
    Poor Henry, she'd surprised herself by thinking one night as she cradled a sweetly sleeping Billy in her arms; it was the first sympathetic thought she'd