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now, there’s no need to take that tone! We’re adults. We can discuss this calmly, I hope. I’m asking very little of you, Miss Merlin. Discretion, really, that’s all I’m asking of you, in return for quite a comfortable living. And what else can you do? Be realistic, I implore you. Who else would ask you? There’s no one but me and you know it!”
    Only the realization that he was speaking the truth kept her from losing her temper completely. “I told you to go,” she got out through stiff lips. “If you don’t leave this minute, I’ll have you thrown out.” By whom, she wondered, Clara? Perhaps between them—
    â€œLook here, you can’t talk to me that way!” he cried, angry himself now. But he took a defensive step back. “Who do you think you are? I came here to offer you a decent living with a generous allowance—”
    â€œDecent!”
    â€œâ€”which is a damn sight more than any other man would do for you now. I know all about you, girl, so this lily-white act is a waste of time with me.”
    â€œHow dare you!”
    â€œYour aunt can’t keep you! Now that they’ve hung your old man, you’ll be lucky to find work in a bawdy-house!”
    She advanced on him furiously. “Get out! You toad !”
    He retreated, thin legs churning, until he was half in, half out the door. He called her a short, ugly name, one she’d never heard before. She seized an umbrella from the stand by the door. But all she had now was her dignity, and she chose not to squander it on a rat. Instead of pummeling him, she tore his antique Flemish five of hearts into pieces, threw them at him, and slammed the door in his face.

II
    C ASSANDRA STARED DOWN at the soft, fluid folds of her pretty, white muslin gown and worried that it wasn’t suitable. She’d seen none like it in the three weeks she’d been here, though in Paris the new Grecian style was swiftly becoming the dernier cri. She guessed it was a bit provocative, worn without stays or a “false rump.” The old style of dress had enclosed women in a kind of fortress. Now, she reflected, there was nothing to prevent a girl from giving way to any passing caprice. Or as her friend Angelique put it, “It doesn’t show afterwards.”
    She shrugged at her reflection. Provocative or not, it was the only white dress she owned, and Mr. Quinn wanted white.
    She went to the bureau and pulled out a red and blue scarf. Should she wear it? The tricolor was worn with such patriotic fervor in France these days—would it send the traitorous Mr. Wade the correct signal? Impulsively, she tied it around her waist as a sash.
    She stepped back to see herself. She’d rejected the classical headdress she usually wore with the gown; instead she’d pulled her hair back rather severely from her forehead, secured it in back with pins, and let it fall freely past her shoulders in its usual curly, often unruly, mass. Surely that wouldn’t be thought provocative. She couldn’t see her lower half in the mirror over the bureau and so could only guess at the effect of her thin-soled buskins laced over the ankles. It occurred to her she’d seen none of them in London, either. Apparently the passion for dressing up as a Greek goddess hadn’t taken hold of Englishwomen yet. She made a wry face in the mirror. Perhaps she would set the style.
    She went back to the high bureau and folded her arms across the top. Was there something in her face that others could see and she could not? She studied her large gray eyes in the mirror, the black lashes and arched brows. Her nose was straight, her lips seemed all right. She smiled, then grinned. Straight teeth, none missing. Black hair, clean if not always tidy. Her skin was healthy, not blotched; men, and less often women, had even complimented her on it.
    She could see nothing extraordinary. She had to wonder about the