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then, you seem to work at looking as close to a strumpet as you can get away with. The cut of your habit borders on the indecent. Any additions to your wardrobe have to be approved by me.” She turned her back on Annabelle to face Molly. “You’ll use the enamel face paint to make her look pale.” With a final warning glare, Priscilla sailed out of the room.
    “What is going on?” Annabelle demanded as soon as the doors snapped shut.
    Molly shook her head and tiptoed over to press her ear to the door. She tapped her lips when she didn’t hear the muffled patter of Priscilla leaving. Annabelle nodded and they moved into the anteroom.
    “More importantly, how did you get on with the earl? Your hair is a mess and your lips are swollen as if you’ve been thoroughly kissed.”
    “He was very circumspect at first. Then, out of the blue, he asked me if I practised at being an empty-headed ninny or did I come by it naturally. I was nonplussed, and gaped at him like a guppy. We laughed. It was easy to drop the façade I had created to put him off me.” A pretty blush deepened the pink of Annabelle’s sun-flushed cheeks.
    “I hope you didn’t allow more than a kiss,” Molly stated. “Nothing less than a courtship will do for the pair of you.”
    “You’re a fine one to talk, Molly, considering what you suggested earlier.” Annabelle removed her hat and pulled off her gloves.
    “Hmmph, what are you not telling me?”
    “His lordship has potential.” Annabelle’s purr was purely female, one Molly had heard in her own voice a time or two at the inception of an affair when everything was new and exciting. Molly remembered how her heart had danced and her blood had raced, her sex growing hot and hungry just hearing her lover’s voice, catching a whiff of his distinctive scent or a brush of his fingers over her skin.
    Molly hated to rub some of the shine off her young mistress’s burgeoning hopes. “We have troubles, Miss Annabelle. Your stepmamma has set her sights on a bigger rooster in the coop. Seems there’s a mucky-muck looking for a wife.”
    All the colour bled from Annabelle’s face, she turned as pale as the fish she had disdained earlier. “A marquis?”
    “Uhmm, yes.”
    “Oh my God, it’s Haversham. She wouldn’t be so vindictive. He’s forty if he’s a day and poxy to boot. He frequents the stews to satisfy his unnatural proclivities.” Annabelle closed her eyes and shuddered.
    “I don’t remember reading about him.”
    “No, I intercepted the report and tossed it into the grate before it reached Priscilla.” A look of desperation filled Annabelle’s eyes. “I am without funds. Molly, you have to find a way to get us some money. We may need to take refuge with one of my relatives, even if for a short time.” Annabelle moaned and sank down on the stool in front of the dressing table. She opened her jewellery case and drew out a small brooch. Set with seed pearls, it was a nice piece but not valuable enough for Priscilla to notice it was gone. “Sell this.”
    “Miss Annabelle, I hate to point this out to you but pawnshops are thin on the ground.” Molly set the pin back in the velvet case and snapped it shut.
    “Oh God, Priscilla is going to find a way to leg-shackle me to that rotter to make me a marchioness.”
    “Don’t you fret, I always travel with some of the ready.” Molly unbuttoned her bodice, pushed down her chemise and slid four gold sovereigns from the sleeve built into her corset.
    She knew just who to ask for help. Not that she’d have to use much persuasion—they were ready lads, and her gratitude would have no boundaries.
     

Chapter Eight
     
     
     
    Molly jabbed her needle into the delicate weave of the silk stocking and drew the thread through the gossamer-fine material with a vicious tug. True to her word, Priscilla had found a way to monitor her activities. She’d sent Bess, her slavishly devoted maid, with a pile of darning for them to complete by the