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in bed and out, and pray that he is not cruel or depraved. It is what’s expected . It is what a mistress must do that a wife need not. Shall I be more blunt?”
    Isabella looked away, swallowing hard. “Yes,” she whispered.
    “Very well, then,” said the marchioness. “If the man is terribly cruel—if you fear for your life—then you must return his gifts and leave him. If he is only a little depraved, you must learn to tolerate it—and learn to become whatever he most desires, be it dominating or utterly shattered and submissive. Some men will wish you to struggle, then allow yourself to be taken. The odder ones will wish to braid your hair, dress you in white lace, then put you across their knee. And they will want you to beg for it—which you will do, my dear Mrs. Aldridge. You must, in short, become a whore. There, I have said it.”
    Isabella felt her color draining. “That is indeed a harsh word.”
    “And I use it for a reason.” The marchioness set her head assessingly to one side, eyes narrowing. “Yes, my dear, a high-class and well-kept whore—but you’ll be one nonetheless. And if you are caught at it, you will be called a whore, probably to your face. You might have to cut your connection to your sisters, or risk dragging them into society’s abyss with you.”
    “I’ve thought of that,” Isabella admitted. “But their standing is already precarious.”
    “Still, these are morally rigid times in which we live,” the marchioness warned. “No one who receives you now is apt to do so if you’re caught. Not unless you have the rare good fortune to be redeemed by an extraordinary marriage—and even then your redemption will have its limits. Trust me. I know.”
    “Yes,” Isabella quietly admitted. “I understand.”
    “Well,” the marchioness went on, “have you the stomach for it?”
    “Is there security to be gained from it?” Isabella lifted her chin.
    The marchioness eyed her. “With your looks?” she said. “Yes, buckets, though it will probably come in the form of what will tactfully be called gifts —jewelry and an annuity first; later a pair of carriage horses or tuition, perhaps, for the girls. Though you are, if I may say so, a tad too thin just now.”
    She was thin; thin for a painfully good reason, too. Food was dear, and children had to eat. And lately, truth to tell, her appetite was waning anyway.
    The marchioness said no more for a moment, holding Isabella’s gaze. “My dear, is there absolutely no one in your family whom you can call upon?”
    Isabella shook her head. “My cousin wishes only to punish me for spurning him,” she whispered. “The children have only their mother’s brother, Sir Charlton, who lives near Thornhill. But he’s a wicked pinch-penny and has refused my every plea since Father died. Worse, he has of late become friends with Cousin Everett.”
    Frustration sketched across the marchioness’s face. Then, as if resolved in her decision, she nodded, rose, and rang the bell.
    “Fetch my maid,” she ordered the footman who answered. “Then unload Mrs. Aldridge’s trunks. Carry them up to my suite, and send round for my barouche.”
    The footman bowed and scurried off.
    “But what are we doing?” asked Isabella breathlessly.
    Lady Petershaw whirled around. “You are going home to the bosom of your family,” she said. “Tell them . . . something. That you have engaged an even better post. I’m going down to Covent Garden to make certain enquiries of an old acquaintance—let us politely call her a matchmaker. My maid is going to take your measurements, then sort out the undoubtedly dismal contents of your baggage.”
    “Th-thank you,” Isabella managed, rising. “But why?”
    “We are of a height,” said Lady Petershaw, going to her rosewood writing desk by the windows to unlock a drawer. “I have a few gowns that can be taken in. Tomorrow you will take this”—she turned and handed Isabella a roll of banknotes—“and