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the high-flyers of Town who are captured like prizes by the highest bidder—or, in some cases, the most skilled lover. Most gentlemen merely want beauty, companionship, and sexual pleasure, discreetly provided. And for that, yes, they prefer widows or fallen ladies who have been forced to the fringes of society.”
    “Lady Petershaw, I fear you just described me,” Isabella pointed out. “I have been reduced to working for my crust and keeping my sisters in a farm cottage in Fulham, where our nearest neighbor is a pigsty. I dress them in hand-me-downs, and they must walk two miles to a—yes, to a charity school . We are barely hanging on to the fringe.”
    This last was said, to Isabella’s shame, a little tearfully. But Lady Petershaw did her the kindness of ignoring it and merely said, “Have you considered how this might affect the children?”
    Isabella sniffed. “It will do them less harm than starvation, I daresay,” she replied bitterly. “But yes, privacy is my paramount consideration. I must avoid exposure—if I can.”
    “Ordinarily when a lady finds herself in this position, a less reputable friend—myself, for example—lets it discreetly be known that the lady has fallen upon difficulties and wishes to make the acquaintance of a generous protector. If the lady is beautiful and flirtatious, it never fails to work. But it also never fails to tarnish the lady’s reputation.”
    “Precisely why I must be away from London,” said Isabella, who’d had a long train journey during which to consider it. “I wish for a brokered arrangement. With an unmarried man, or a man whose wife will not grieve should she suspect. But yes, a rich, even-tempered widower, ideally.”
    “Oh, you will not be able to choose so nicely,” the marchioness warned in a dark tone. “There are people who make such arrangements for gentlemen— introductions, they are politely called—and yes, they can be lucrative in the long term. But a courtesan must prove her mettle, my dear. It is not a career for the faint of heart.”
    In this, at least, Isabella felt confident. “I am not faint of heart,” she said. “I have survived much these past eight years. Now I wish to make an alliance with a wealthy—no, a rich —man. Disgustingly rich.”
    “Do you, indeed?” The marchioness smiled.
    “Indeed,” said Isabella more determinedly. “Actually, he needn’t even be a gentleman. A banker or merchant or a sea captain will do nicely. And I wish to be away from London. And to begin immediately . My trunks are downstairs, already loaded onto Lady Meredith’s carriage.”
    “My, you do not wish for much, do you?” But the marchioness was looking at Isabella with a new sort of respect.
    “I can’t go home with nothing,” said Isabella. “I cannot . The children think I’ve taken a post in Northumbria. They think . . . they think everything is going to be all right. Because I promised them it would be. Can you understand, ma’am? I promised . Jemima is old enough now to comprehend our circumstances—and to fret herself ill.”
    “Very well!” As if in surrender, Lady Petershaw threw up her hands. “But if I’m to help you in this, Mrs. Aldridge, I shall tell you right now that nothing in your trunks will be of service,” she warned. “You must dress and act the part. And pray do not imagine some sweet, rose-covered cottage and a quick pump in the dark, my dear. A wife is required to do that much. Shall I tell you just how it will be?”
    Isabella opened her mouth, then shut it again. “Yes,” she finally said. “Yes, I daresay you ought.”
    “You must learn to loosen your hair and lower your bodice,” said the marchioness firmly. “You must learn to flutter your lashes, flirt dangerously, and convince this man to whom you are introduced that you burn to writhe beneath him—even if you both know, in your hearts, that it’s nothing but a charade. Once the deal is struck, you must bend yourself to his will