not find herself a new maid rather than tolerate Hattie’s censure. Juliana never answered. The truth was that she rather liked having a strict maid. It made up in part for the mother she could not remember.
On impulse Juliana started to dress herself, getting into a tangle as she tried to fasten her silk stockings to her garters, casting her stays aside and slipping into her chemise. The evening dress she had chosen was deceptively simple, a wrap of aquamarine gauze. Even so, she found it surprisingly difficult to fasten it without help. The diaphanous material was intended to cling and drape seductively and it was almost transparent. Juliana frowned at her reflection. The dress was gaping inelegantly like that of a blowsy, drunken trollop and looked not so much seductive as ridiculous. Clearly there was more to this business of dressing oneself than met the eye. She would not try it again. She could not bear to look unkempt.
She sat down at the dressing table and studied her reflection. She had not the first idea of what to do with her hair, which, now that the tiara was removed, tumbled down her back in auburn profusion. To have her hair loose about her face softened the breathtaking angles of her cheekbones and made her look younger. The sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose only added to the youthful impression. Those freckles had withstood years of forceful scrubbing and all her attempts at removal with Dr Jinks’s Lemon Ointment. Juliana leaned closer. There was a hint of vulnerability in her eyes that she did not wish to acknowledge. It made her feel strange, just as she had when the unknown man had looked at her.
The door opened and Emma Wren rustled in. Juliana could immediately tell that Emma was a little the worse for drink. Her colour was high, the rouge on her cheeks smeared, and her hairpiece slightly askew.
‘Juliana, my dear!’ Emma was high with excitement. ‘You were utterly magnificent! Why, the gentlemen can talk of little else! They are all waiting for you, my dear. Are you ready to go down?’
Juliana turned back to the mirror. She was aware of making excuses. ‘Not quite. I need some help with my gown and my hair.’
Emma tutted. ‘You should have called my maid. Dessie will fix it in a trice. Although…’ she stood back and considered Juliana’s appearance ‘…you do look quite charmingly rumpled and wanton like that, my dear. I am sure the gentlemen will appreciate it. Tumbled curls are quite the thing, you know, and make you look so young and innocent.’ She gave a peal of laughter. ‘You will quite sweep them away!’
Not for the first time, Juliana reflected that Emma was wasted as the wife of a junior government minister and would have been most successful as the madam of a bawdy house. There was, in fact, very little difference between Mrs Wren’s elegantly appointed town house and a Covent Garden bordello. Or a rookery in a less salubrious part of Town, for that matter. Juliana turned her shoulder. She might connive at some of Emma’s more outrageous games for her own amusement, but she had no intention of playing to someone else’s rules. The trick played on Brookes had alleviated her boredom for at least an hour, but now she did not propose to go downstairs and act the harlot.
‘Sir Jasper Colling is asking for you,’ Emma said meaningfully, putting her painted face close to Juliana’s, so that Juliana could smell the stale wine on her breath. ‘And Simon Armitage. He is a sweet boy, Ju—and so very young and eager. Think what fun it might be to initiate him…’
Juliana felt a wave of repulsion. There was something sweet about Simon Armitage’s untried adoration and it would be a gross betrayal to take that adoration and use it for her own gratification. She was hardly so steeped in dissipation, whatever the gossips might say. She was determined to refuse Emma’s blandishments, but before she disappointed her hostess’s expectations and drew her ire, there was something that she wanted to know. She tried to make her voice sound casual.
‘That gentleman, Emma—the one who looks like a rake but behaves like a priest—who is he?’
Emma’s expression cleared. ‘Oh, I see! You prefer someone new! There is nothing so intriguing as a stranger, is there, my dear?’ She frowned. ‘A few hours ago I should have said that you could not have chosen better, but now I am not so sure…’ She flung herself down on the end of the bed. ‘That is Martin Davencourt. One of the Somersetshire Davencourts, you know. No title, but rich as Croesus and connected to half the families in the land. He is back in London following the death of his father last year.’
‘Davencourt,’ Juliana repeated. The name rang a very faint bell, but the memory escaped her.
Emma’s voice had taken on a petulant note. ‘Yes, Martin Davencourt. I was told that he was amusing—indeed, he should be amusing, for he has knocked about the capitals of Europe for several years.’ Juliana, watching in the mirror, saw her pull a face. ‘I invited him because I thought he would be fun, but he seems the most prosy bore. Perhaps it is because he wants to be a Member of Parliament now and seems to take himself so seriously. Some MPs do, you know. Or perhaps it is having those seven tiresome half-brothers and half-sisters to care for. Whatever the case, he declines to enter into the spirit of things tonight, but perhaps you could change his mind for him.’
‘Martin Davencourt…’ Juliana frowned. ‘The name is familiar, but I do not believe we have met. I am sure I would have remembered him. I could almost swear that we had met, yet I cannot think when…’
Emma arched a knowing eyebrow. ‘I believe his diplomatic work has kept him out of the country for a good while. Still, even if you do not really know him, you can always pretend. Come downstairs and persuade him to renew old acquaintance, Ju.’
Juliana hesitated, then shook her head. She stood up, scooping her cloak from the bed where it rested beside Mrs Wren’s elaborate coiffure.
‘I do not think so, Emma. Mr Davencourt is proof against my charms. And I fear I must decline your offer of entertainment tonight. I have the headache and think I will have an early night.’
Emma sprang to her feet, looking affronted.
‘But, Juliana, the gentlemen are waiting. They are all expecting you! I promised them—’
‘What?’ Juliana stared. There had been a note of panic in Emma Wren’s voice and with a sudden insight she realised what had happened. She had been promised as part of the entertainment—not simply offered on a tray, as it were, but to be thrown to the guests afterwards at the orgy, along with the Haymarket ware that Emma had imported for the occasion. The thought made her furious. Emma knew perfectly well that Juliana might indulge in risqué tricks to entertain herself and her friends, but to promise her services to the guests was another matter.
‘I am not going downstairs to play the Cyprian for Simon Armitage, Jasper Colling or indeed anyone else,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘I am tired and I wish to go home.’
Mrs Wren’s painted mouth thinned to an obstinate line. There was a knowledge in her eyes that was as old as the hills and it made Juliana, for all her experience, feel very naïve.
‘I fail to see why titillating their appetites by appearing naked on a tray is more acceptable than spending a little time with my gentleman—’
‘It is not merely my time you wish me to give,’ Juliana said stiffly. She could feel her colour mounting as she stared at Emma’s contemptuous face. She knew there was an element of truth in her erstwhile friend’s assertion. She had deliberately set out to shock and provoke and now she wanted to retreat from the consequences of her actions. She took a breath.
‘I agreed to play the trick on Brookes because it was fun, a joke to tease and shock your guests! Anything else is out of the question.’
Emma
