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I’m an unrefined sort of female, and unused to such attentions. The only time I can sit still is when I’m writing.”
    â€œThat’s very true,” seconded Maggie. “When she’s not at her desk, she dances around like a child denied a trip to the privy.”
    Madame Hortense huffed and tugged her hand from Eleanor’s. She edged backward. Clearly, she needed further assuaging.
    â€œWhen I learned that I would need to disguise myself as a man,” Eleanor continued, “I came straight to the Imperial. Not simply because I knew Maggie but because I knew that, of all the cosmetic artists in the whole of this city, no one could possibly match you in skill. The work you did in creating that demon for Maggie’s Curse of the Midnight Prince stole my breath. I was convinced that an actual demon trod upon the boards, not an actor. Half the women in the audience wanted to flee in terror.”
    Madame Hortense pressed her lips together, but a flush of gratification spread across her cheeks.
    â€œAnd,” Eleanor went on, “your ability in transforming women into men for breeches parts . . .” She shook her head. “Had I not looked in the program and seen the actresses’ names, I would have demanded physical proof that they were indeed female.”
    For a moment, Madame Hortense did not move or speak. But then she slowly nodded. “It’s true. I am the best.”
    â€œThen please, I beg of you, forgive me and continue on with your excellent work.”
    The woman sniffed. Then she moved back to where Eleanor sat in front of a lighted mirror and proceeded to tug her hair into ruthless submission. Madame Hortense shoved more and more pins into her hair—­she’d look like a shedding hedgehog later when the pins were removed—­and Maggie sent Eleanor a tiny glance of approval.
    As Eleanor submitted to more of the makeup artist’s attentions, Maggie suddenly asked, “Why?”
    â€œWhy what?”
    â€œWhy would Lord Ashford approach you and offer to have you accompany him on his nightly escapades, for the strict purpose of you writing about him? There are some aristos who seem to enjoy the attention, but Ashford doesn’t strike me as one of them.”
    â€œNor me,” Eleanor answered. “I’ve been going over and over it, and I still haven’t come up with a logical answer.” She winced as Madame Hortense jabbed another pin into her scalp. “I cannot figure what the benefit is to him. He’s got an agenda—­I’d bet my printing press on it.”
    â€œIs it wise, then, to accept his proposal?”
    â€œNo,” Eleanor answered bluntly. “But opportunities like this don’t simply stride into my office in their polished Hessians every day. Nothing’s stopping him from going to The Well-­Informed Londoner or Pauley’s Miscellany .” Her two biggest competitors would relish the chance to write an in-­depth series about one of the country’s most eligible and notorious bachelors. “If I pass up the chance, I may as well bid a fond farewell to my paper and take up some truly degrading work, like writing burlettas.”
    Smiling, Maggie made a rude noise, accompanied by an equally crude hand gesture. Still, concern edged her voice as she pressed, “You will be careful, won’t you? I know his type. They’re as trustworthy as adders.”
    â€œI will be at all times on my guard.” Eleanor fought to keep still as Madame Hortense stretched some kind of very fine net over her hair, containing the whole of it.
    â€œAnd don’t fall victim to his seductions, either,” Maggie added.
    Eleanor laughed. The idea was ludicrous.
    From working on her own paper, Eleanor had been provided ample evidence that associations between noblemen and commoner women seldom—­if ever—­did well. Numerous females had been left with babes in