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his aunt, so he took Bertram around with him as much as possible. Every time he went to Cordelia’s drawing room, the marquess planned to leave Bertram behind, and yet every time he found himself taking the boy along. The marquess was looking for a mistress and had already decided on Cordelia, since he found her to be extremely beautiful and knew that the more mercenary the woman, the easier she was to get rid of once the affair began to pall. But there was always something at the back of his mind that stopped him from making Cordelia a firm, if disreputable, offer.
    He was sorry for Harriet and annoyed with her at the same time. Since her arrival, Cordelia’s character defects had begun to seem more glaring.
    Harriet’s black hair was now crammed up under a bonnet. He remembered how it had looked, cascading about her shoulders like a gleaming black river, when she sat at the spinet.
    Harriet was recollecting his generous payment for the hens.
    “I must thank you, my lord,” she said, “for the ten sovereigns you sent me. It was more than the birds were worth.”
    “I think not,” he said. “Two good laying hens obviously meant a lot to you.”
    “Thank you,” said Harriet awkwardly. She wished he would go away. His very presence was disturbing her. He was a rake and no doubt felt obliged to charm every female he came across.
    “I am giving a ball,” he said. “An unusual thing for a gentleman to do, I admit. We usually leave all the entertaining of that nature to the ladies. But I am anxious to introduce Bertram to some respectable young company. There is nothing like an interest in the ladies to counteract the bad influence of the stables and gaming tables.”
    “I do not think you have to worry,” said Harriet. “Mr. Hudson appears to be of a romantic disposition.”
    “Perhaps. I think it may be a pose to cover his shyness. If I sent you a card, would you come to my ball, Miss Harriet?”
    “I will try,” said Harriet. She had nothing to wear, but she was interested in a gloomy way to see if Cordelia would intercept the invitation. “When is it to be?”
    “In a week’s time. I had meant to send you an invitation, but I was becoming convinced of your aversion to frivolity.”
    “I would like to be frivolous … for a little,” said Harriet. She looked so forlorn, he had an impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her, and was quite startled at the intensity of his own desire.
    “Then I shall hope to see you, and your aunt, of course. May I escort you home?”
    “You are very kind, my lord, but I would prefer to walk by myself for a little.”
    She curtsied to him gracefully and then moved quickly away across the grass. The marquess stayed, watching her slight figure in its ugly black dress until she was out of sight.
    Harriet eventually made her way back to Hill Street, feeling shabby and depressed.
    As she walked up past the drawing room, she could hear Cordelia’s voice raised in anger. “Do you know what that
cat
Lady Jessop said to me t’other night, Agnes? She said, ‘How clever of you to be able to bring your sister back to life. You must indeed be the enchantress all the gentlemen say you are.’”
    “Shouldn’t have told that tarradiddle about her drowning,” said Agnes gruffly.
    “I didn’t say anything of the sort, and you know it,” said Cordelia waspishly. “I don’t know what everyone is talking about. I
never
said such a thing.” Like all consummate liars, Cordelia was already beginning to believe she had never told that fairy story about trying to save her sister from drowning. “Harriet is a shabby embarrassment and
must
go. She and that old frump of an aunt have had time enough, sponging off me. You must tell them to leave. Agnes.”
    “Shouldn’t you tell them yourself? She
is
your sister, you know.”
    “I pay you to do as you are told, so let me have none of your impertinence, Agnes. I am to go to the opera tonight. Get rid of them before I return. There is a