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risen at dusk and sent for her dresser. Betty hardly needed prompting to provide more information than Beatrix could ever want about the duchess. When Beatrix found she had a callow if courageous son, the plan was set. A personally worded note to his rooms, an evening of solo attention; so simple really. Men just liked to be appreciated. A sighed disclosure that she was not to be of theparty the following night, and . . . the card of invitation had arrived at ten in the morning Saturday.
    A courtesan in such a situation had two choices. She could seek to blend into the crowd, looking more demure, more acceptable than anyone. Or she could choose to stand out, and damn the eyes of those who thought she shouldn’t be there. Beatrix always chose to stand out.
    Now as she ascended the stairs to the great stone portico of Bessborough House, Beatrix exuded calm. Her sable cloak and muff were proof against the raw March wind. Underneath, she knew her deep russet gown of heavy satin would be the envy of every woman in the room, no matter how spitefully they whispered that the color was too deep to be fashionable. She did not care for the tiny puffed sleeves in fashion, so she had her dressmaker lengthen them to the elbow, and slash them as was the fashion in the sixteenth century, with creamy lace peeking out at the slashes. The tiny rim of lace at a square neckline so décolleté she looked in danger of spilling from it at any moment echoed the slashes. She wore garnets, rust red and spread in a net of gold over her breast, and in pins winking in her hair and at her ears.
    She let the footman take her wrap. He might not be here if he had not recovered from his wound. A niggling worm of disappointment wound through her. She pressed it down. She was here because it amused her to accept his challenge. If he happened to see her, he might appreciate the opportunity he had refused the other night, but that was nothing to her. Of course, she could not really hold his refusal against him if he thought himself too weak to do his part. Did that mean she would grant him another chance? She and Ponsonby ascended the staircase.
    “May I present Beatrix Lisse, Countess of Lente?” Ponsonby made the introduction to his parents just inside the doorway to the great first-floor ballroom. Beatrix could feel the duchess’s disapproval. But Beatrix had beendisapproved of by better women than the duchess. She smiled at the woman, once beautiful, an intimate of the Prince Regent, and let her gaze rove over the Pomona green robe and feathered turban. She inclined her head in a curtsy just pronounced enough not to be rude, but hardly obsequious.
    “Lady Bessborough,” she murmured. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”
    The duchess looked stunned. Beatrix could feel Ponsonby redden. Of course his mother hadn’t known. “Do enjoy yourself,” Lady Bessborough said, her mouth a moue of disapproval.
    “Thanks to your so dear son, I’m sure I shall,” Beatrix murmured and moved on. Let the good duchess worry about that one for a while. From the doorway, she surveyed the crowd while Ponsonby stuttered his excuses to his mother. She did not see the tall form she was looking for.
    Wait! There he was. Over in the corner, watching, though most people of dancing age were engaged in the center of the room. His eyes were just as cynical and green as she remembered. She saw him glance toward the entrance without expectation, as though he had been glancing there all evening, and had the satisfaction to see his gaze arrested in recognition. She stared boldly back. Touché. She was here.
    Ponsonby stepped to her side, following her gaze. “Langley,” Ponsonby cried and raised a hand. He turned excitedly to Beatrix. “I saw him make hash of three bruisers in Hay Hill Street Thursday night. Pluck to the backbone. Might we inquire after his health?”
    “Of course,” Beatrix murmured. “I am quite interested in his health.”
    Ponsonby shepherded her across