“Us?” Isidore said scornfully. “Us is short foolish men like Beesby, and tall, uncaring men like my husband. What do I care for us?”
“It is useful to have a good reputation,” Jemma said.
“How would you know?” Isidore demanded. “You left your husband years ago, Jemma. Left him in England and went to Paris—and don’t tell me that you were tending to your reputation all those years! Not when you had parties that even Marie Antoinette hesitated to visit—”
“Though she always did,” Jemma put in.
“But you have skirted the edges of propriety for years—yes, and well beyond propriety,” Isidore stated. “And now you say there is a place in England which you dare not visit? Why? What could happen to you there? Will you be struck by a great desire for an actor and have an affaire with a man from a different class?”
“Well—”
But Isidore was just gaining her stride. “Because that is what you are really talking about!” she said, her Italian accent increasing. “You, all of you, are saying that Strange is scandalous and not one of us because he is a mere baronet’s son. Because he, unlike all of us, is not a duke or a duchess!”
Harriet looked around. Until that moment she had not realized that they were all duchesses, except for Villiers, who was a duke.
“Apparently, we live in such rarefied atmosphere that we cannot flirt with men who do not have a ducal crest on their carriage doors,” Isidore said scathingly. “You, Jemma, you who set Paris on its ears with your parties of half-dressed satyrs, you cavil at the idea of Strange because he is not a duke!”
“The problem is more complicated than you present it, Isidore,” Jemma replied. “If a man flirts with a duchess, he flirts with her rank. When they feign affection, if you don’t see the foot-licking behind it, you are a fool. No man ever forgets your rank at the moment he kisses you—if your rank is the highest in the land.”
“I don’t believe that!”
“You will never truly be able to forget your rank either,” Jemma said remorselessly, “unless you are in a room like this one, in which we share the title. The scandal caused by your flirtation will undoubtedly be greater due to Lord Strange’s low birth, but it will temper your pleasure. At any rate, I cannot accompany you. I am done with scandal-broths.”
“And why is that?” Isidore demanded.
“My husband requested it of me. Beaumont has many responsibilities in the House of Lords, and it is not helpful when his wife makes herself a byword on the street. And believe me, Isidore, anyone who visits Fonthill will be a byword.”
“Fine!” Isidore said. “A byword is precisely what I wish to be. I shall write my mother-in-law immediately and tell her of my plans, and then I’ll write Cosway’s solicitor, and tell him to send me funds at Strange’s house.”
“In my experience, when a woman has decided to lose her virginity, one can’t stop the impulse,” Villiers said, grinning. “It would be like trying to dam—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Jemma said.
“I’ve been invited to Strange’s and was planning to travel there after this party,” Villiers said, “but I can’t take you with me. That is, not unless I put together a party. Or you find a chaperone.”
“I gave up my chaperone two years ago,” Isidore snapped. “When I turned twenty-one and there was no husband in sight, I let my aunt return to Wales. I shall travel alone.”
Villiers looked at Jemma. “Please tell your fiery friend that she cannot arrive at Strange’s house unaccompanied and—I might add—uninvited.”
“I am a duchess, even if I don’t use the title,” Isidore said instantly. “Show me the house that will deny entrance to the Duchess of Cosway!”
“Strange doesn’t like titles,” Villiers said. “You’re more likely to be admitted as Lady Del’Fino.”
Jemma shook her head. “I cannot accompany you, Isidore. I really can’t.”
“I’ll take her,” Harriet said.
She heard the words in her own ears with that queer double sense one gets when one hasn’t thought out a comment. It just sprang from her lips.
There was a moment of dead silence. All three turned to look at her.
“You?” Isidore said.
And: “You mustn’t take Isidore’s starts so seriously,” Jemma said. “She’ll forget about this scheme of hers by tomorrow morning.”
“No, I won’t,” Isidore stated.
“Why shouldn’t I go?” Harriet said. “If the Duke of Villiers accompanies the two of us we won’t be turned away.”
Villiers gave a short laugh. “You must be as feverish as I.”
“You can’t go, darling, because you are not a wastrel like myself,” Jemma said, “nor yet a wastrel-in-training like Isidore.”
“I may not be a wastrel,” Harriet said, “but I’m not really anything else, either. No one recognizes me, because I’ve lived in the country for so long. Like Isidore, I am a duchess without a duke. But unlike you, no one’s career would be diminished by the tarnishing of my reputation.”
“Everyone knows you!” Jemma said, horrified. “You are our own, darling Harriet.”
“I am a dumpy widow who lived in the country during my marriage and thereafter,” Harriet said flatly. “My husband committed suicide, and those of the ton who don’t blame me for his death are morbidly sorry for me. No one will pay the faintest attention to whether I go to Strange’s house or not.”
“They don’t blame you for Benjamin’s suicide,” Villiers said. “They blame me. And God knows, they’re right to do it.”
She gave him a little half-smile. “It was his life—and his decision. There’s no one to blame.”
To her shock, he reached out his hand. And she took it. There was no need to say anything else. His hand was surprisingly comforting for someone as sharp-tongued and uncomfortable as she considered Villiers to be.
“How long ago did your husband take his life?” Isidore asked. “And please forgive me for not knowing the answer; I have only been in this country for a few months.”
“Two and a half years ago,” Harriet said. “I am well out of mourning and can attend whatever party I wish.”
“Then I would welcome your company,” Isidore said.
“I just can’t imagine either of you at Fonthill,” Jemma exclaimed. “From what I’ve heard, Lord Strange’s household is one long bacchanalian orgy.”
“Splendid!” Isidore said immediately. To Harriet’s mind, she looked ready to throw herself straight into the fray.
Jemma shook her head. “Harriet isn’t—”
“She certainly isn’t dressed for an orgy,” Villiers interjected.
Harriet looked down at herself. She’d forgotten she was dressed as Mother Goose. But why shouldn’t she be part of an orgy? “I want to go. I am dressed in a nightgown; I’m half way to the bedchamber already.”
There was a wry smile in Villiers’s eyes.
“We can both wear our costumes. I’ll announce myself as an actress.” Isidore had a wicked grin.
